#BUT i think i can sign up for college french classes!! it's a long story but i wasn't able to before (not offered) and am now. and i could

[macroglossus]

think i have to wait a while before trying to read things in french even easy stuff bc i think my brain is trying to fill in what words mean even when i have absolutely no idea. i don't even remember learning to read in english so i don't know if that's how it's supposed to be...... But. i think i should wait until i have just like. more basic filler words

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Can you please give an explainer on the friendship between Robespierre and Desmoulins and what their dynamic together was like? I know they were at school together as kids but were they really as close as movies usually portray them as? Was Robespierre better friends with Saint-Just?

Bonus: What's the story behind Desmoulins using Roussaeau against Robespierre?

Merci!

That’s an interesting question considering how often their relationship, as you say, has gotten dramatized.

The good days of the relationship

Both Robespierre and Desmoulins started attending the boarding school of Louis-le-Grand at the age of eleven, the former in 1769, the latter in 1771. We don’t know when exactly they first ran into and/or got to know each other, nor exactly just how close or not they actually grew to be while at college. To me, the following two statements do however suggest that their relationship back then was at least better than ”mere acquaintances”:

Oh, my dear Robespierre! It is not long since we were sighing together over our country’s servitude, since, drawing from the same sources the sacred love of liberty and equality, amid so many professors whose lessons only taught us to detest our land, we were complaining there was no professor of cabals who would teach us to free it, when we were regretting the tribune of Rome and Athens, how far was I from thinking that the day of a constitution a thousand times more beautiful was so close to shining on us, and that you, in the tribune of the French people, would be one of the firmest ramparts of the nascent freedom! Desmoulins in number 15 of Révolutions de France et de Brabant (March 8 1790)

I knew Camille in college, he was my study companion, he was then a talented young man without mature judgement. Since then Camille has developed the most ardent love of the Republic;... one must not look only at one point in his moral life, one must take the whole of it; one must examine him as a whole. Robespierre defends Camille at the Jacobins December 14 1793 (only time he ever admitted to a college friendship with anyone at all)

Liévin-Bonaventure Proyart, who worked at the college up until 1778, would give the following description of the relationship Desmoulins and Robespierre had back then in his La vie et les crimes de Robespierre: surnommé le Tyran… (1795):

In his lower classes, and however young he had been, [Robespierre] was very rarely seen sharing the amusements and games which most please childhood. His cold and misanthropic heart never knew those outpourings of lively and frank joy, natural signs of candor and ingenuity. Of all the noisy and endlessly varied amusements which make the public recreation of a college such an animated scene, none pleased him, and he preferred dark reveries and solitary walks. If someone, at these moments, approached him, he received him with a cold gravity; and answered him at first only in monofyllables. If he took it upon himself to praise his style and his scholastic productions, Robespierre did him the favor of striking up a conversation with him. But, however little one ventured to thwart him, one instantly became the object of some harsh and virulent trait. Camille Desmoulins, who lived at the same college, and whose impetuous and untidy character did not adapt well to the philosophical arrogance of Robespierre, had from time to time grapples with him, but from then on as since, the champions did not fight on equal terms. Always more reflective than the opponent who provoked him, and more master of his moves, Robespierre, watching the moment, pounced on him with all the advantage that cold prudence has over temerity.

Fellow students Beffroy de Reigny and Stanislas Fréron would in the latter half of the 1790’s similarly make the contradiction of stating both that the young Robespierre didn’t have any friends at school and that he and Desmoulins had been college comrades (Beffroy writing that Robespierre was ”his (Desmoulins’) comrade and mine” and Fréron that Desmoulins was Robespierre’s ”childhood comrade”). Though given the time these texts were written, I think this might should be read more as these Robespierre-dislikers wanting to have the cake and eat it too (ergo they both want Robespierre to have killed his childhood friend and to have been so repulsive he had no friends at all) than as full blown evidence Camille was Robespierre’s ”only friend” at school as the latter puts it in La Terreur et la Vertu.

Finally, Marcellin Matton, when writing a short biography over Camille in 1834, stated the following regarding his college days:

It was [at Louis-le Grand] that Camille got to know Maximilien Robespierre. They differed in character, but both had this passion which always distinguishes men of genius — love for liberty and for independence. The fully republican education one gave to young people born to live under a monarchy contributed a lot to their character. Without stop and in all forms, one presented them with history of Gracchus, Brutus, Cato. Camille was always together with Robespierre and their conversation most often revolved around the constitution of the Roman Republic.

While this certainly sounds like it could just be romantizing, we do know Matton was friends with Camille’s mother-in-law and sister-in-law, and it it’s therefore possible it’s them (who in their turn would have gotten it from Camille) who have given him this account of a close college relationship.

It’s sometimes argued that Robespierre and Desmoulins can’t have been friends while at school since they were never in the same grade, and it therefore would have been really hard for them to socialize. And indeed, when looking over the school regulations that were in motion during their time there, that does indeed come off as quite a hard thing to do — students were to stick to their ”quarter” both in dormitories, during classes, study hall, on Sunday outings, and at table (at first I thought maybe these ”quarters” weren’t neccessarily made up of students who all came from the same grade, but this other piece seems to rule out that possibility). This leaves the thirty-minute recesses as the only places where students from different quarters would have gotten a chance to interact with one another (bc they all seemed to have recess at the same time according to the schedule…). I do however think Robespierre and Desmoulins’ own testimonies weigh heavier than this. Desmoulins would also go on to admit college friendships with other students we know for a fact can never have been in the same grade as him.

In 1774 and 1775, both Robespierre and Desmoulins’ names featured on the list of students that had been awarded annual prizes for their hard labors, which means that they, according to the regulations, got presented before the bureau of administration by the principal ”to there receive praise and rewards due to their work and the success of their studies” together.

After graduating (Robespierre in 1781, Desmoulins in 1785) the two seemingly lost sight of one another, at least we don’t have any evidence they corresponded or in other ways kept up contact. Two pieces do however show us they did not forget about each other entirely. The first is a letter dated spring 1786 Camille adressed to the aforementioned Beffroy de Reigny, who in January the same year had openly thanked his ”former study comrade Robespiere [sic]” for sending him two of his works as a gift.

It was noticed lately, as a misfortune attached to the house where we were brought up together, that none of those who had distinguished themselves there fulfilled in the world the hopes that he had first given, that you alone seem happier right now, and we rejoice in your many subscribers. Although the subscribers are your dear and beloved cousins, we can clearly see that you have not forgotten the rest of the family, nor lost sight of the mountain where we were the first to applaud you. The advantageous manner in which you have spoken of M. Robespiere [sic] has charmed us all; up to now, M. Jéhanne has missed only one opportunity to provide you with the occasion of doing him justice as well. The joy with which you gave well deserved praise to a comrade reproached me for my conduct towards you, and obliges me to retract. 

In 1793, Robespierre did in his turn admit to before the revolution have read a poem (that according to Camille had been written in 1787), and felt proud once he realized who the author was:

Remember that at a time when the monarchy was best established on its foundations, Camille, a simple individual, without support, without advocate or patron, a lawyer without a cause on the fourth floor, dared to put into verse the proudest principles of the most determined Republican. Then, in the depths of my province, I learned with secret pleasure that the author was one of my college comrades.

Interestingly, Robespierre’s younger brother Augustin started studying law at Louis-le-Grand in 1784, one year before Camille graduated from said program, although neither would claim to have known the other while at college.

On May 8 1789, Desmoulins authored a letter to his father, telling him about the opening of the Estates General at Versailles three days earlier. Lamenting the fact he himself didn’t get elected for it, he writes: ”one of my comrades has been more fortunate than I, it’s de Robespierre, deputy from Arras. He has been wise enough to plead in his own province.” The fact Camille was able to recognize Robespierre eight years after their separation (and care about it enough to write it down), could be read as yet another sign their college relationship had at least mattered somewhat, especially since this letter is from before Robespierre had made any kind of name for himself politically. How exactly Camille found out Robespierre had been elected (did he recognize his face in a crowd, accidentally run into him or just see it written down somewhere?) is however unknown.

After the ceremony, Camille did however head back to Paris, while Robespierre would remain at Versailles up until October 1789. On July 23 1789, the latter writes to his friend Antoine Buissart that he has been shown the stormed Bastille after the king and the National Assembly’s brief visit to Paris following July 14, but there’s no evidence he saw Desmoulins during it, or even that he knew he had been the one inciting the storming at this point.

In the beginning of September, Camille released Discours de la Lanterne aux Parisiens, the first of his works which he mentioned Robespierre in:

I would at least congratulate M. de Robespierre for opposing with all his strength the release of the Duke of Vauguyon. M. Glaizen opposed it in an even more eloquent manner. Member of the criminal committee, he resigned immediately. This speaks of conviction. Honor to MM. Glaizen and Robespierre!

Later the same month, Camille went back to Versaille after having been invited by Mirabeau, and the day after his arrival (September 20 1789) he could write to tell his father: ”If you hear bad things said about me, console yourself with the memory of the testimony that MM. de Mirabeau, Target, M. de Robespierre, Gleizal and more than two hundred deputies gave me.” Camille stayed with Mirabeau for two weeks before returning to Paris, but there’s no proof he saw Robespierre any more times during his stay.

When Robespierre too went to Paris soon thereafter, he settled in an apartment on Rue de Saintonge, today a 45 minute walk away from Camille’s erstwhile home on Rue de Tournon 19. Despite finally living in the same city again, it’s not until March 6 1790 I’ve discovered something more concreate tying the two together. It’s a note from Desmoulins to Robespierre, found listed in Mémoires de l’Académie des sciences, agriculture, commerce, belles-lettres et arts du département de la Somme (1907) as one of many Desmoulins related text published in Journal de Vervins during the summer of 1884. Unfortunately, I can’t find this journal online anywhere, so I don’t know what the note was about.

In November 1789, Camille founded his very first journal — Révolutions de France et de Brabant — that would run until the fall of 1791. Searching for the term ”Robespierre” in the seven digitalized volumes of the journal, I find Camille talking about him around 85 times. The first time is in number 4 (released December 19 1789), where he makes sure to underline the fact that he and Robespierre had been ”college comrades”:

…If my dear college comrade, Robespierre, had said the same thing to the viscount, he wouldn’t have been able to respond like Saint Peter.

This was the first in a long series of homages Desmoulins’ journal would pay Robespierre. Throughout the years, he called him among other things ”The last of Romans and my hero” (number 41, September 6 1790), ”So pure, so inflexible, the peak of patriotism” (number 46, October 11 1790), ”the living commentary on the Declaration of Rights” (number 65, February 21 1791) and ”immutable” (number 76, May 9 1791). Desmoulins was also second in giving Robespierre the famous nickname ”the Incorruptible.” Not even Robespierre’s erstwhile boyfriend brother in arms Pétion, where Camille still admitted it was impossible to speak of one without thinking about the other (number 55, December 13 1790) got the same almost saintlike treatment. While Robespierre got praised by several journals positive to the revolution, I don’t think it would be that unfair to say Desmoulins was his cheerleader number one during at least its first few years. Several times, Robespierre also sent Camille speeches and letters of his which the latter willfully inserted into his journal (1, 2, 3).

I’ve found only one time Révolutions de France et de Brabant had something negative to say about Robespierre, and it is in number 27, released on May 31 1790, and conviently enough, the next piece of information regarding Desmoulins and Robespierre’s relationship that I know of:

I wasted my time preaching the republic. The republic and democracy are now down, and it is unfortunate for an author to shout in the desert and to write pages as worthless, as little listened to, as the motions of J. F. Maury. Since I despair of overcoming insurmountable currents, tied for six months to the bench of rowers, perhaps I would do well to regain the shore, and throw away a useless oar. I should leave Garnery, continue writing Révolutions de France et de Brabant at a discount, without attempting with my librarian, the unequal struggle of Tournon with Prudhomme. But I hear Robespierre call my discouragement corruption, and exclaim that I am sold like the others to the King's wife and to the ministerial party. I must undeceive my dear Robespierre, I must give new proofs of my incorruptibility every week, show that I am as proud a republican as he is, and that when the number of patriots, which is diminishing prodigiously every day, would be reduced to one or two citizens, it is I who would like to remain the last of the Jacobins. […] How is it that I was accused of being a sold-out journalist, and that I saw Robespierre and L... among my slanderers, when it is so difficult to find proofs of corruption against me? […] So I could not have my neck wrapped in a handkerchief and complain of esquinancia without being reproached for argyrancia as well. Ungrateful Robespierre!

A week later, June 7 1790, Robespierre authors the following letter to Desmoulins, in response to something the latter has written about him in the number of his journal released right after the one quoted above:

Monsieur, I read the following passage regarding the decree from May 22 on the right of war and peace in your (votre) latest number of Révolutions de France et de Brabant: On Saturday, May 22, the little dauphin applauded a decree Mirabeau had put forward with a good sense way beyond his young years. The people applauded too. It led back in triumph Barnave, Péthion [sic], Lameth, d'Aiguillon, Duport, and all the illustrious Jacobins; imagiening itself having just won a great victory, and these deputies had the weakness to maintain it in an error which they enjoyed. Robespierre was more frank, he said to the multitude which surrounded him and stunned them with his beating statement: ”Well! gentlemen, what are you congratulating yourself on? the decree is detestable, detestable to the last bit; let's let the brat clap his hands at his window, he knows better than us what he's doing.” I must, monsieur, point out the error in which you have been led on the fact which concerns me in this passage. I told the National Assembly my opinion on the principles and consequences of the decree which regulates the exercise of the right of peace and war; but there I stopped. I did not make the statement you cite in the Tuileries garden; I didn’t even speak to the crowd of citizens who gathered in my path as I crossed it. I believe I must disavow this fact: 1, because it is not true; 2, because, however disposed I am to always display in the National Assembly the character of frankness which should distinguish the representatives of the nation, I am not unaware that elsewhere there is a certain reserve which suits them. I hope, monsieur, that you will be good enough to make my statement public through your newspaper, especially since your magnanimous zeal for the cause of liberty will make it a law for you not to leave bad citizens the slightest of pretext to calumniate the energy of the defenders of the people. De Robespierre.

There’s certainly not much in this letter implying Robespierre is friends with Desmoulins, or even knows him as anything more than a journalist… All readers’ letters published within Révolutions de France et de Brabant up to this point have however used vouvoiement and been about as formal, so it’s possible Robespierre (who, according to his conserved correspondence, doesn’t use a particulary warm tone with anyone around this period save his arragois friend Antoine Buissart) is trying to mimick them. It’s also not impossible his tone had something to do with what Desmoulins had written about him a week earlier. Desmoulins did however not let himself become influenced by it when publishing and responding to the letter in the the next number (June 14 1790) of his journal. He even chose to adress Robespierre in tutoiment, even though Robespierre addressed him with vouvoiement, and despite having adressed every other correspondent to the journal with vouvoiement up until this point.

If I insure this errata, my dear Robespierre, it is only to show your (ton) signature to my fellow journalists, and teach them not to cripple a name that patriotism has illustrated. There is in your letter a dignity, a seanatorial gravity which wounds college friendship. You’re rightly proud of the laticlave of deputy to the National Assembly. This noble pride pleases me, and what annoys me even more is that not everyone feels their dignity as you do? But you should at least greet a former comrade with a slight nod. I love you none the less, because you are faithful to principles, even if you are not so faithful to friendship. However, why demand this retraction from me? When I would have slightly altered the truth in the anecdote I told, since this fact is honorable for you, since I doubtless said what you thought, if not your expressed words, instead of disavowing the journalists so curtly, you had to content yourself with saying like the cousin, in the charming comedy of the supposed dead man: ”Ah! Monsieur, vous brodez!” You are not one of those weak men of whom J.J Rousseau speaks, who do not want anyone to be able to repeat what they think, and who only speak the truth in their negligee or in their dressing gown, and not in the National Assembly or in the Tuileries.

According to Brissot, the incident did however end up making both college comrades rather piqued against one another. In his memoirs (1793), he wrote the following about it:

I reread this letter to Camille, which chance put before my eyes at this moment, and of which Robespierre himself had brought me a copy to print so that it would have more publicity. It is dated June 8 [sic] 1790 […] Doesn't everything in this letter, on which I can't help but dwell yet, bear the character of a vague uneasiness, of a singular timidity? I remember on this occasion Robespierre with his fears and his scruples which he could not dissimulate. Desmoulins' thoughtlessness alarmed him; he didn't know what to think of it. Was this young man paid to write such follies, and thus compromise the friends of reason and liberty? The deputy's response to the journalist was dignified, proud; it was indeed the style of a patriot. Royalism? what clumsiness! […] Before inserting this complaint in my diary, I warned Camille, whose susceptibility I knew. His answer was made, he left it to me; but I thought I was agreeable to him by publishing neither this answer nor the complaint of which it was the object. He seemed to me strongly piqued against Robespierre. Was it in this tone that a college friend had written to him? What had this rose-watered Brutus to blame, and what power was he so afraid of displeasing? However, Cassius did not want to anger Brutus. Desmoulins always sought to stick to celebrities, to Danton as to Mirabeau, to Linguet as to Robespierre; he would have sought out Marat, had that wolf been able to live with someone in society. Moreover, Robespierre's letter, like his signature, struck his mind, and his answer smelt a bit of taunting.

If the relationship got damaged, it was however not enough to stop Robespierre from saving Camille after an arrest warrant had been issued against him during the session of the National Assembly held on August 2 1790:

M. Malouet: …Is Camille Desmoulins innovative? He will justify himself. Is he guilty? I will be the accuser of him and of all those who take up his defense. Let him justify himself, if he dares. (A voice rises from the stands: ”Yes, I dare.” A part of the surprised assembly rises; the rumor spreads in the assembly that it is M. Camille Desmoulins who has spoken; the president gives the order to arrest the individual who uttered these words). N…: I ask that we deliberate beforehand on this arrest. M. Robespierre: I believe that the provisional order given by the President was indispensable; but must you confuse imprudence and inconsideration with crime? He heard himself accused of a crime against the Nation, it is difficult for a sensitive man to remain silent. It cannot be supposed that he intended to disrespect the Legislative Body. Humanity agrees with justice, pleads in its favour. I ask for his release, and that we move on to the agenda. The president annonces that M. Camille Desmoulins has escaped and can’t be arrested. The Assembly pass onto the order of the day.

Desmoulins was grateful Robespierre had stepped in, and in number 38 (August 16 1790) of his journal, he described the incident in the following way:

My dear Robespierre did not abandon me at this moment. By condemning me at first he conciliated all minds, and then brought them back with great art by developing this motion: if it is someone other than M. Desmoulins who raised his voice, this breach of assembly wheat must be punished; if it is him; it is difficult for an accused who does not feel guilty not to accept the challenge of his accuser. I ask for his release. Robespierre was applauded.

When Fréron (who we know was on friendly terms with at least Camille) described the very same incident in his journal l’Orateur du Peuple, he did refer to Robespierre as ”[Camille’s] friend” so perhaps their relationship had indeed gotten better since Robespierre’s impersonal letter…

Three numbers later (September 6 1790) Desmoulins writes about having given Robespierre a book written by abbot Jean-Joseph Rive:

O most learned and most patriotic of abbots! I read your letters, in which you always start out angry with me, and in which you end up smothering me with patriotic semens, and I gave your dear Robespierre your 700 pages in-80. But when do expect us to find the time to read your little novel?

Pierre Villiers, who in his Souvenirs d’un déporté (1802) claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary April-November 1790, wrote that the latter during this period ”thought the highest (il a fait le plus grand cas) of Camille Desmoulins. He's going too fast, Robespierre said to me, he'll break his neck; Paris wasn't made in a day, it takes more than a day to undo.”

On December 11 1790, Camille was given permission to marry Lucile Duplessis. Two weeks later, December 27, Robespierre, alongside Pétion, Brissot, Mercier, Sillery, Danton, Duport du Tertre, Barnave, Viefville des Essarts, Charles Lameth, Alexandre Lameth, Mirabeau, Andrieu and Deviefville, signed the couple’s wedding contract (1, 2). Two days after that, the wedding ceremony was held in Église Saint-Sulpice. Writing to his father about it, Camille could report that the witnesses this time had been ”Péthion [sic] and Robespierre, the elite of the National Assembly, M. de Sillery, who wanted to be there, and my two collegues Brissot de Warville and Mercier, the elite among the journalists.” The priest presiding over the ceremony was Denis Bérardier, who from 1778 to 1787 had been Camille and Robespierre’s college principal, after which he had been elected to represent the clergy at the Estates general. In the previously cited letter to his father, Camille writes that Bérardier during the ceremony held a speech that moved both him, Lucile and all of the witnesses to tears. An anonymous anecdote from 1792 similarily claims Camille began to cry out of joy during the ceremony, only this time Robespierre, instead of crying along with him, responded: ”don’t cry, you hypocrite!” It was however dismissed as apocryphal by Desmoulins’ latest biographer. After the ceremony, Camille reports that groom, bride, the witnesses and Bérardier all went over to his place to have dinner together with Lucile’s parents and sister. 

A little more than a month after the wedding, Robespierre, impatient to see a speech of his printed in Révolutions de France et de Brabant, sent the following letter to Camille. This is the first time in his conserved correspondence where he doesn’t use vouvoiement, and it won’t be until February 1793 that he does so again (though I don’t have any appreciation on whether adressing someone in third-person is less formal or not):

Paris, February 14 1791 I point out to Monsieur Camille Demoulins [sic] that neither the beautiful eyes nor the fine qualities of the charming Lucile are reasons for not announcing my work on the national guard which has been given to him and of which I send him a copy if necessary. At this moment there is no object more pressing or more important than the organization of the National Guards. At least that is what the citizens of Marseilles think, of whom I am here attaching a decree relating to my speech. I beg Camille not to mislead himself and to try to also send me back the letters from Avignon and the replies which I gave him. Robespierre

Camille obliged, printing the speech a week later in number 65 (February 21 1791) of his journal. It happened to be Discours sur l’organisation des gardes nationales, in which Robespierre becomes the first person ever to use the three words ”liberté, égalité, fraternité” as a slogan. But it was Camille who in July 1790 had been the first to bring the three words together as a formula. Robespierre and Desmoulins can therefore be said to hold the shared responsibility for the invention of what today is France’s national motto.

Five days after Camille had published Robespierre’s speech, February 26, Madame Chalabre wrote to the latter that ”The patriot Camille, in his last speech, paints with a charming naturalness, a truly original precision, the character of your talents. One would think that the genius of the good and unfortunate Jean-Jacques inspired him; it is of such a delicate touch; he shed so many tears reading this passage! Good Camille, you deserve the happiness which I hope you will enjoy with your lovely companion.” A week later, March 3, Sillery writes to Camille that ”Madame de Sillery is coming to dine at my house with Pétion and Robespierre, I dare to ask your lovable and beautiful wife to too do me this honor. […] Come, my dear Camille, if you have ever found yourself in a pure and exact democracy, it will be eight o’clock on Sunday when I hope to embrace you.”

In number 79 (June 4 1791) of his journal, Camille praises the ”simplicity” of Robespierre ”going by foot from his home on rue Saintonge to the National Assembly and dining for 30 sols,” implying they are on good enough terms for him to know those details about him. A few weeks later, June 21, Paris woke up to the discovery that the royal family had disappeared from the capital during the night. In number 82 (June 27 1791) of his journal, Camille would describe in detail what he had been up to during this day:

I left [Lafayette] hoping that maybe the immense career that the King's flight had opened to his ambition had brought him back to the popular party, and arrived at the Jacobins, striving to believe in his demonstrations of friendship and patriotism, and to fill myself with this persuasion, which, despite my efforts, flowed from my mind through a thousand memories, as through a thousand outlets. The only man who has my full confidence, Robespierre, had the floor. See here a speech full of truths of which I haven’t lost a single one, and tremble: [he then transcribes a speech Robespierre holds on the flight of the royal family] How shall I express this abandon, this accent of patriotism and indignation with which he pronounced it! He was listened to with that religious attention from which we collect the last words of the dying. It was, in fact, like his testament that he came to deposit in the archives of the club. I did not hear this speech with as much composure as I report at this moment, where the arrest of the former King has changed the face of affairs. I was moved to tears in more than one place, and when this excellent citizen, in the middle of his speech, spoke of the certainty of paying with his head for the truths he had just pronounced, I cried out: we will all die before you!

Apparently no one ever taught Camille to be careful with what you wish for.

In the same number, Desmoulins also describes how, the next day, he and several others brought a woman who had information to give on the escape attempt to the Jacobin club, in the hopes that her testimony would get Robespierre to denounce Lafayette and Bailly. Once arrived, they talk to him and Buzot, who both quickly become convinced of the high credibility of the witness, but are taken aback by the measures proposed to be taken. ”We will be,” they said, ”pushed back from the tribune, referred to the research committee, and our accusation will be entered in this mortuary register of denunciations.” After a while Pétion shows up and definitely discourages Robespierre, who, according to Camille, ”at first was quite disposed to take away the reputation of Bailly and La Fayette via assault.”

The escape attempt resulted in the demonstration and shootings on Champ de Mars on July 17 1791. On the evening of the same day as these events, we find Desmoulins and Robespierre at the Jacobin Club, both speaking of what had just happened. Shortly thereafter Camille went incognito for a while, hiding out at Lucile’s parents’ country house at Bourg-la-Reine until finally resurfacing in Paris again in early September. In the meantime, Robespierre had changed address and gone to live with the Duplay family on Rue Saint-Honoré 398, today a 35 minute walk from Rue du Théâtre 1 (today Rue de l’Odeon 28) where Camille and Lucile had moved shortly after their wedding. In her old days, Élisabeth Duplay authored a list over the people who most commonly would frequent her family’s house during the revolution.

The Lamenths and Pétion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti.

However, judging by an anecdote told by the same Élisabeth, Desmoulins’ visits went from being frequent to rare after a certain incident (that I would guess happened in 1793 considering Élisabeth still places his overall visits under the ”often” section):

One day Camille familiarly enters the Duplay house; Robespierre was absent. He starts a conversation with the youngest of the carpenter's daughters; as he retires, Camille hands her a book he had under his arm. ”Elizabeth,” he said to her, ”do me the service of holding onto this work; I will come back for it.” No sooner had Desmoulins left than the young girl curiously half-opened the book entrusted to her custody: what was her confusion, seeing paintings of revolting obscenity pass under her fingers. She blushes: the book falls. All the rest of the day Elizabeth was silent and troubled; Maximilian noticed it; drawing her aside. "What's the matter with you," he asked her, "you look so worried to me?" The young girl lowered her head, and as an answer went to fetch the book with the odious engravings which had offended her sight. Maximilien opened the volume and turned pale. "Who gave you this?" he asked in a voice shaking with anger. The girl frankly told him what had happened. "It’s fine," Robespierre went on, "don't talk about what you've just told me to anyone: I'll make it my business. Don't be sad anymore. I'll let Camille know. It is not what enters involuntarily through the eyes that defiles chastity: it is the evil thoughts that one has in the heart.” He admonished his friend severely, and from that day on, visits from Camille Desmoulins became very rare.

In a diary entry entry from June 1792, Lucile seemingly confirms the connection she and her husband had with Robespierre’s host family when she writes ”I went with C(amille) and little Duplay (most likely Élisabeth’s little brother Jacques-Maurice) to an old madwoman’s.”

On September 30 1791, the National Assembly was shut down and Robespierre left Paris for Arras, where he arrived on October 14. He was back in the capital again on November 28. A little more than two weeks later, December 16, Brissot, held his first speech in favor of going to war. As known, Robespierre opposed this, holding his first speech against the idea just two days later. Desmoulins quickly joined his side, holding a similar speech on December 25. When Robespierre held his third big speech on the subject, on January 11, Desmoulins, who listened to the reading, was enthusiastic and the next day he wrote the following letter to the ”patriots of Millau” (cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un Rêve de République):

At the moment I am still enthusiastic. This speech will be reread in all sections, in all clubs and in all patriots' houses; everywhere one will admire and especially love the author, but what would have happened had you heard him speak yourself! Those who were his college comrades, and even those who last year were his colleagues in the National Assembly, have not recognized Robespierre for some time. From a man of spirit, he became eliquent, and now he is sublime at intervals. It seems that he grows by one foot every month, as it is true that the home of talent is the heart. When, two years ago, I presented him, in my journal, as a Cato, I was far from foreseeing that he would never rise to the height of the talent of Demosthenes.

A month later, Desmoulins also aimed a blow against Brissot with the release of the pampleth Jean Pierre Brissot démasqué. While said pampleth definitely outlined who Camille considered his enemies, it also made clear who were his champions, with Robespierre, who’s name got mentioned nine times throughout, taking up the forefront:

This true patriot (Rœderer) has not forgiven me, him and his cabal, for loving Robespierre, my college friend, venerable, great in my eyes, although it has been said that there was no great man for his valet-de-chambre, nor for his college friend and the witness of his youth.

In a letter written shortly thereafter to François Suleau, another one of their former college comrades, Desmoulins claimed that ”[Robespierre] sees me as invulnurable after the proof of incorruptibility that I produced in my latest writing to Brissot.” Apropos of Desmoulins still seeing Suleau, a firm royalist, he added: ”I cannot blame my friend Robespierre when he tells me that he would run away from my house on seeing a notable from Coblentz (Suleau) enter.” 

War was nevertheless declared on April 20 1792. The very same day, Camille and Fréron, who had both had to quit their journals in the aftermath of the massacre on Champ de Mars, signed a contract for creating a new one — La Tribune des Patriotes. The first number was meant to be released on May 7, but the following day, their publisher Charles Frobert Patris told Camille he had refused to print it, on the charge of it being ”a libel.” Camille reported this to the Jacobin club the very same day, and the following session Patris came forward to explain himself. Things did however not go the way he’d planned, and in a pampleth released shortly afterwards, Patris wrote the following regarding the session:

How come you (Robespierre) tolerated that the vile informer (Camille), to whom I was answering, seeing the club cover with long applause the hard truths that I was beginning to tell him, left his place to go sit down behind you, pulled you by the tailcoat and spoke to you in a low voice and with an air of intelligence! Didn't you have to feel that such intimacy would favor him, and turn to my prejudice?

Soon thereafter, La Tribune des Patriotes could finally be released. This work too was in part meant to protect and advocate for Robespierre, starting already in the first number:

O my dear Robespierre, I gave you this name (the Incorruptible) three years ago! Let people re-read my writings: at the time of my highest admiration for the Mirabeaus, the Lafayettes, the Lameths, and so many others, I always set you apart, I always placed your probity, character and soul above all; and I have seen that the public, while learning from my writings, has hitherto confirmed my judgments, six months or a year after I had made them. Since degenerate friends of truth come to the aid of the impotence of our means to defray the cost of this journal, Fréron and I will not abandon you in the breach, in the midst of a cloud of enemies. The efforts of all these false patriots relentless today - against you alone, we will divide them, by drawing on us their hatred, and by fighting at your side, not for a man, not for you, but for the cause of the people, the equality of the constitution, which has been attacked in you.

Desmoulins and Fréron had originally planned to have the journal run for at least a year, however, it failed to catch an audience and was put down already after four numbers. Robespierre’s name did however still get mentioned a total of 40 times throughout the journal, always in a positive light.

On July 6 1792, Lucile gave birth to a son who received the name Horace. The idea that Robespierre was his godfather would appear to be nothing but a myth seeing as the baptism record doesn’t mention any godparents but only two witnesses — neither of which is Robespierre but instead Laurent Lecointre and Merlin de Thionville. After the good days of the relationship were over, both Lucile and her mother would however contemplate over Robespierre having held Horace in his arms on multiple occasions, the former writing: ”You (Robespierre) who have smiled at my son and whom his infantile hands have carassed so many times…” and the latter asking if he still remembered ”the caresses you lavished on little Horace, how you delighted to hold him upon your knee.”

Three days after his birth, Horace was sent off to a wetnurse, while Lucile soon thereafter went to her parents’ country house to rest up. Camille remained in Paris working on a speech that he delivered on July 24. A few days before it he reported to Lucile that ”I dined at Robespierre’s today and talked ever so much about Rouleau (nickname for Lucile), Rouleau, my poor Rouleau.” Lucile returned from the countryside on August 8. Four days later, after the Insurrection of August 10, Camille was made secretary by the new Minister of Justice Danton. After a week, the three went to live at Hôtel de Bourvallais, just a six minute walking distance away from the Duplay house, and where, in Lucile’s own words, ”we spent three months quite cheerfully.”

The trial of the king started around the same time Camille and Lucile returned to their original apartment. Robespierre and Camille once again fought side by side for the same goals — this time for death and against an appeal to the people. In number 2 of his journal La Defenseur de la Constitution, Robespierre inserted a speech Camille had made on the latter of these two questions.

On March 26 1793, Desmoulins and Robespierre were both elected for the so called Commission of Public Safety, alongside 23 others. The commission, consisting of both fervent montagnards and girondins, was however off to a rocky start, and already on April 6 it was put to death and replaced by the Committee of Public Safety, which neither Desmoulins nor Robespierre was on.

On May 17 1793, Desmoulins announced the release of his new pampleth l’Histoire des Brissotins to the Jacobins. We know that Robespierre had had a hand in the creation of this pampleth through a note inserted in Camille’s Lettre de Camille Desmoulins au général Dillon released a few months later:

The true origin of the rigor of the Committee towards you, would it be in a very long note, which was printed following l’Histoire des Brissotins, which Robespierre made me cut out?

The Jacobins published l’Histoire des Brissotins on May 19, and a week later, Robespierre, who for a long time had refused to do so, openly called for an insurrection against ”the corrupt deputies” of the National Convention at the Jacobins, a wish he then repeated three days later. Two days after that, the Insurrection of May 31 took place, and on June 2 the Convention voted for the arrest of 29 Girondins. I think it could be argued it was Desmoulins and Robespierre who together had delivered the principal deathblow to this ”faction.”

Nine days after the murder of Marat, July 22 1793, the Jacobin Club tasked Desmoulins, Robespierre, Lepeletier and Dufourny with writing an adress to the French people regarding it. Said adress was printed and read aloud at the club four days later, obviously deploring of the event and praising the murdered. Just one day after that, July 27, Robespierre was elected as member of the Committee of Public Safety. Camille on the other hand remained restless, and on November 1, he wrote to ”his old friend” to ask to be sent on a mission to Aisne.

I point out to our dear Robespierre that there is no impediment by law to me going to my department. Choudieu and Ricord, who are in theirs, Barras, and so many others, prove that the decree of which Billaud-Varennes spoke yesterday either does not exist or is not being executed. So I always recommend to him, as Lejeune's assistant, the historian Lucceius, reminding him of the custom of the senate of Rome, which never failed, when one of its members wanted to spend a week in Greece or Sicily, to see his father, to deliver to him, honoris curá, letters of credence, and the title of commissioner, or of legatus, which did not prevent him, on the way, from deserving well of the republic, and from gaining the vasarium. His old friend, Camille Desmoulins. To citizen Robespierre, member of the Committee of Public Safety.

As can be seen, Desmoulins adresses Robespierre in third person here, just like Robespierre had done to him two years earlier. These letters are the only examples of these two using third person that I’m aware of, almost making you suspect it was a conscious choice they made of adressing the other like that. Desmoulins did however not obtain any mission, but remained in Paris, as did Robespierre.

On December 5 1793 was released the first number of Desmoulins’ new journal Le Vieux Cordelier. According to what he wrote in said number, it was after having heard Robespierre and Danton speak at the Jacobins on December 3 that he decided to pick up his pen again — ”I leave my office and my armchair, where I had all the leisure to follow, in detail, this new system of our enemies, of which Robespierre only presented the outline, his occupations at the Committee of Public Safety not allowing him to embrace it in its entirety like me.”

 Like with l’Histoire des Brissotins, Camille had let Robespierre proofread and give his approval of the number before it got sent to the publisher. He did the same thing again for the second number, released on December 9, that concerned itself with the topic of dechristianization, denouncing Anacharsis Cloots and Anaxagoras Chaumette for their role in it. These thoughts were shared by Robespierre, who had spoken for liberty of cults on both November 21 and 28 and December 5 and December 6, and would go on to get Cloots expelled from the Jacobins when the latter passed through its scrutiny test on December 12. Two days later, the turn had come to Camille to go through the very same examination. He was at first questioned on his friendship with the general Arthur Dillon and for having stated that the Girondins ”died as republicans” the day they were condemned. After Desmoulins had justified himself, stating among other things that ”a well marked fatality willed that, among the sixty [sic] people who signed my wedding contract, I only have two friends left — Danton and Robespierre. All the others have emigrated or been guillotined,” Robespierre took to the floor and, after reproaching Camille for having been on friendly terms with Mirabeau, Dillon, Lamarlière and the Lameth brothers, made sure his friend passed the test. To ensure it, he first recited from heart a long poem Camille had written in 1787, the verses of which ”struck me so hard back then, that they have been ingraved in my memory,” and then said the following:

The manner in which Camille expressed himself at a time when some great patriots of today trembled, perhaps even cringed, before the tyrant; these are character traits that must be taken into account when judging a man. It is true that no one better than he justifies the proverb of the peoples living on the banks of the Guadalquivir and the Tagus: so and so was brave on such a day. Camille, stricken with thoughts of death, constantly sees the guillotine before his eyes; he imagines that because several of his friends have perished by the last torture, the same fate awaits him. Here is the character of Desmoulins: easy to let himself be warned, he quickly believes in the signs of patriotism that he perceives; but is he undeceived? His love for public affairs makes him tear the veil; he drags in the mud the cheats he had placed under the canopy; it is thus that he treated Mirabeau, the Lameths, and the Brissotins in recent times. The Girondin faction wanted to attract Camille to their party; Sillery was charged with this role. The famous Pamela appeared before Desmoulins, accompanied with an enchanting voice the sounds of a melodious lute; Camille, insensitive to the sting, faithful to his wife, faithful to republican principles, disdained the attractions of this new Circe, of this second Herodiade. Desmoulins, the first of all, mounted at the Palais Royal on the unsteady boards of a tottering table, preached patriotism, pistol in hand; he rendered great services to the Revolution. His energetic and easy pen can still serve it usefully, but it is necessary that, more circumspect in the choice of his friends, he must break any pact with impiety, that is to say, with the aristocracy; on these conditions, I request the admission of Camille Desmoulins.

The next part in the reblog.

[angelisverba]

thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number) 

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

*    *    *    *    *    *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter. 

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat. 

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society. 

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’  his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room. 

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck. 

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin. 

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit. 

 Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips. 

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had. 

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango. 

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion).  The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere. 

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it. 

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’ 

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough. 

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did. 

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother. 

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat. 

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door. 

 Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be. 

And he wasn’t lonely anymore. 

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company. 

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants,  and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.  

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel. 

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already. 

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.” 

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like. 

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy. 

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation. 

Right? 

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy. 

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table. 

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon. 

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants. 

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny. 

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could. 

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again. 

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared  trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin. 

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class. 

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go. 

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.  

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’. 

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence. 

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said. 

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement. 

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.” 

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible. 

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked. 

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t. 

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited. 

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible. 

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another. 

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart. 

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent. 

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.” 

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy. 

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.” 

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully. 

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”  

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be. 

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her. 

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest  as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer. 

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning. 

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him. 

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked. 

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home. 

His home. 

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture). 

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too. 

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did. 

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number. 

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room. 

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise. 

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch. 

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her. 

“Oh my god!” She said,  “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with.  She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’. 

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’. 

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm.  The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow. 

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up. 

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf. 

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.” 

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.” 

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.” 

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three. 

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said. 

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n. 

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her. 

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.” 

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck.  Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements. 

Like dropping her card when she piped up again. 

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm. 

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous. 

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing. 

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”  

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram. 

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added. 

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?” 

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.” 

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma. 

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time. 

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates. 

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat. 

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store. 

***

Harry was having a shitty morning. 

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should. 

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage. 

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead. 

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance. 

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way. 

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day. 

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that. 

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning. 

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart. 

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down. 

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content. 

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.    

It’s no use. 

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true. 

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be. 

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him. 

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier. 

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin. 

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible. 

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy. 

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips. 

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay. 

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day? 

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look. 

“Back again so soon, H?” 

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop. 

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.” 

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said. 

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal. 

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and- 

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart. 

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?” 

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off. 

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove. 

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.” 

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.” 

 It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence? 

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.” 

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.” 

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out. 

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle. 

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly. 

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice. 

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. 

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like. 

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.” 

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.  

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance. 

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought. 

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.” 

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).    

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling. 

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.” 

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!” 

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles. 

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!” 

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all. 

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else. 

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time, 

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-” 

Harry and y/n giggle at each other, 

“You go first.” 

“Y’speak first.” 

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.” 

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s  side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands. 

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm? 

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.” 

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose. 

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.” 

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her. 

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.” 

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum. 

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face. 

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body. 

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything. 

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers. 

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes. 

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay. 

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning. 

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole. 

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum. 

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.  

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?” 

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.” 

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-” 

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists. 

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?” 

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.” 

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning. 

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching. 

“Will you text me?” She asked him. 

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?” 

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center. 

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?” 

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.” 

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent. 

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling. 

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.  

********

Harry can’t stop thinking. 

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning. 

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom. 

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.  

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds. 

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface. 

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves. 

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button. 

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like. 

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut. 

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock. 

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her. 

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself. 

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm. 

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge. 

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base. 

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum. 

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum. 

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out. 

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again. 

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body. 

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads: 

y/n <3 : so… dinner? 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name. 

He couldn’t be happier. 

*    *    *    *    *    *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

[clare-with-no-i]

from thee quibblah putting this in here for the future WHEN foreigner's god goes up pls do a director's cut xoxooxox mwah

hello THEEEEE quibblah! thank u for this question also when can I expect ur formal mailed apology for WTRF because that second chapter put me in a DITCH

anyway. SUPER, SUPER long post under the cut! because I have no chill! have never had chill! idk what chill is, to be frank!

SO - I was actually so nervous to put the long snippet out there that had this quote in it:

"I’m dead, she thinks, even as she feels the steady thump-thump against her ribs, I’m dead. I’m dead. He found us. We’re dead."

because I was like oh that basically gives up the whole game lol, but luckily it was not so obvious that people immediately knew I was referencing canon. WHEW! I mean, a few people guessed, but thankfully if any other people figured it out they kept it to themselves so I wouldn't have a meltdown HAHA

I wanted the first flashback to be of Harry because 1) it immediately sets up what the past lives were without me having to explicitly say it (woohoo less world-building for me, a Lazy Person) and 2) I can establish that this is going to really center on undoing the tragedy of canon. I haven't really read a lot of 'lovers in a past life' fics, but one thing that has nagged at me when I have is that I want to know why these people got a second chance. what was so tragic about their past lives? why do they deserve a do-over?

and if anyone deserves a fucking do-over, it's canon Jily.

--

this scene also has possibly one of my favorite lines of the entire fic, which is:

"The stoplight switches from red to green, and without knowing why, Lily flinches."

I actually stared at that line for a good few minutes after writing it, because it felt like such a good, concise encapsulation of the entire plot of the story - she doesn't know what's going on, or why her body is reacting like it is, but she sees this flash of green light in front of her (obvious allusion to what her last sight was in canon as Voldemort cast the killing curse) and has a physical, visceral reaction. it's also more subtle of a line than I'm usually able to write, lol.

--

fun fact about the case I give Lily: that's actually based on when I worked for a French pastry store in college as a barista, and they made me sign a contract like that upon hiring, which was just...absurd. and then I showed it to my dad, who's a commercial litigator, and he responded with "that is the least enforceable contract I've ever seen in my life." so. fuck you, mister J. burrows.

also, for those wondering, Burrows and Elkins ended up settling for a reduced sum a few months later. neither Lily or James cared.

--

THIS lawyerly passage:

"At this, Lily can only quirk an incredulous brow; he’s just violated one of the cardinal rules of practicing law. He’s mentioned fairness.

Fairness has no place in a court of law, and neither does it in this conference room. Settlements and verdicts aren’t decided based upon what’s fair, or even what’s right; they’re decided based upon who adheres to a contract more—or alternately, who decides first to accuse the other of not adhering to said contract. In criminal cases, this contract is the law; in civil cases, it’s the documents and agreements that assign the distribution of money.

Every competent lawyer knows this. Frankly, every incompetent lawyer knows it, too, but they choose to try and leverage it anyway, because they’re either too emotional or too lacking in logic not to. It’s one of the first things taught in any legal education."

comes from a book I read in which a Contracts prof makes a very similar argument on the first day with his 1L class. I took a few liberties and am willing to admit that the whole "in civil cases, it's the documents and agreements that assign the distribution of money" is a bit contrived, but I wanted to show off how knowledgeable and sharp Lily is. so. inner monologue to the rescue!

--

ok I haven't really talked about this before, but writing those flashback scenes was HARD. honestly one of the harder things I've ever tried to write - trying to find a concise, legible way of describing the sensation of having an audiovisual hallucination was damn near impossible!! so saying "the world flickers" was me just being like WELL I GUESS IT DOES

--

the email-countersuit scene is where I really throw all knowledge of civil trial proceedings into the wind and say fuck it. would those reviews have actually been enough for a libel suit? do lawyers need to notify opposing counsel when filing a countersuit? do they need to communicate that via phone or email or letter? would Lily's counterclaim to his counterclaim even do anything? who the fuck knows! not me!

but that notwithstanding I did have seven separate tabs with various "how to file a countersuit" "what do barristers do vs solicitors" "how to set up a deposition" articles open at all times when writing. I am now seeing targeted ads for Men's Warehouse suits. FML.

--

the Sirius scene is....one of my favs.

THIS wonderful moment:

"It finally takes Lily’s own screeching objection—you two should be ashamed of yourselves, I know exactly what you’re doing, this venue provides a free lunch at half-noon so you’re asking nonsense question to keep this going, did you think I wouldn’t know—to get the meeting back on-track."

is quite literally word-for-word something my mom did in the 80s when a bunch of asshole lawyers kept asking bullshit questions to her witness during a depo because they wanted a catered lunch. and she actually yelled this at them. fucking queen shit.

also, I felt no need to include Peter in the flashback because there was just no way he'd contribute to that. and he wasn't going to make an appearance IRL so, goodbye sir, u are not needed

--

Remus as an A&E doctor made so much sense to me. he would subject himself to that much stress.

another fav passage!

"When Lily was twenty, she went on a trip to Paris with her best friend, and they watched the movie Inception for the first time in the hotel room. The next day, she walked the same streets she’d seen explode and fold inward onto themselves, and she biked to the same bridge where Ariadne grabbed ahold of the world and turned it into mirrors for her to shatter.

Hearing Remus confirm his friendship with James Potter gives her the same feeling; that she’s bearing witness to the intersection of fiction and reality, something grounded in the living world that holds a single, enduring tether to the imaginary."

I know this was very random of me, but I was not sure how to describe the feeling that Lily must have had when realizing that her subconscious brain has somehow predicted that Remus and James would know each other, and then I was like - oh, let's have her think about a movie and reconcile it with the real world.

plus, idk if anyone picked up on this, but the entire premise of inception is the mingling of dreams and reality. HMMMM? HMMMMMMM?

--

the dancing-to-the-beatles scene was the first thing that made me kinda cry writing the story. and I listened to blackbird while writing it, so that Made Things Worse. also, suze, that one was for u, my Beatles queen. ty for the tears xo

--

"Then, one day, he sends her a link to an upcoming exhibit at the V&A called Masters of European Impressionism. She’d been staring at the same link a few days prior, but had clicked off, abashed by ticket prices.

The link comes with a short message: my family are members, so we got some extra tickets we’re not going to use. I don’t know why, but you seem like the type to be a fan of impressionism. Let me know if you want the tix."

yeah I like impressionist art! and all of my art friends make fun of me for it because it's apparently very plebeian of me to have it be my fav style! so I was like fuck u Lily is going to like European Impressionism and we're all going to respect her for it.

also, we can expect another reference to Van Gogh in Bond and Free. just so u know that I know that u know.

--

one of the things that made me so nervous about putting this piece out there is the lack of dialogue. like, most of their communications happen via text/email/phone call, not really in-person. in fact, they see each other 4 times (once without dialogue!) before the Halloween Scene, and I debated for a while if that would be a turn-off for people or if everyone would just skip over the descriptive bits. so, thanks for not doing that, if you didn't!

--

SPEAKING OF the coffee scene:

"They run into each other in a Starbucks in Victoria the first weekend of September. He makes puns. She rolls her eyes but laughs, forcing reluctance for whatever semblance of disdain she can try and play at in his presence. He pays for her coffee. When she objects, stating that there’s no reason to single her out, she can pay for her own coffee, so he might as well just pay for everyone else’s coffee, while he’s at it, for god’s sake, he just blinks at her and shrugs.

And then he pays for everyone else’s coffee."

if you read the structure of the sentences in that paragraph, everything James does is very simple - 'he makes puns.' 'he pays for her coffee.' 'he just blinks at her and shrugs' while Lily's sentences are super long and run-on.

this is because I wanted to give everyone a very visceral look into the way that lily perceives their situation: she feels like she's in the middle of a very complex internal conflict, but to her, James is cool and collected and unbothered - she's not even registering any minute action he does other than 'he pays for her coffee' and 'he makes puns.'

if this had been from his perspective, it probably would have been reversed!

--

the war scene AHHHH

so, 2nd time J has called her after/during a dream. AKA, this man is having the same dreams as you, miss Lily, and he very much needs to confirm that you're ok and safe, but in this one we see him regret the decision and hang up before she can answer, unlike after The Sex Dreams, in which this man was so thirsty and so confused he just picked up the phone very desperately wanted to hear her voice. HA simp

--

can y'all tell I have never been to a psychic?

the Splintered Star thing was really fun to think about though, and I'm honestly not sure where it came from. it just felt very Fated and Destiny-based and I liked that it kinda-sorta explained the traversing of universes/reincarnation.

also. y'all rockin with the multiverse???

--

SO. so. the wedding scene. Yowza.

I know that it's a bit wild for Lily to just up and ask him what happens when they die, because like wow bitch u rlly said 0-100 Real Quick, but at this point she is so frazzled and sleep-deprived and desperate to sort her head out that it actually felt very honest to have her just skip over the small talk.

conversely, this also means that she hears his answer from a slightly-less-logical standpoint, and just takes it as a sign that he doesn't remember her instead of investigating further. but like. she's fucking tired y'all!!!!

--

YEAAAHHHHH the Train Station scene.

this made me cry super hard writing. I hope that is consolation to everyone. I was nervous because I know in canon it's like, The Veil, but this felt the most reminiscent of when Harry is about to die in DH, and I also really wanted to establish a sense of movement with their deaths. they don't just cross a Veil, they get on a train and they don't know where it's going to take them.

also, fun fact, I had another part of this scene mapped where the train makes a stop and they see Harry about to confront Voldemort in DH, and J gets to say his famous "until the very end" line, but I was pretty sure at that point I'd be run off Tumblr with pitchforks, so I just left it. but now all of you know. so. WHOOPS

--

Did I just add the detail that Harry was dressed up like a little deer when Voldemort attacked? Yes, I did.

Did I also add the detail that James's wand was in the laundry basket because he's a Frazzled Dad and that's why he attacked Voldemort without a wand? Yes, I did.

Did I then continue to add the detail that Lily hears James's body hit the floor? Yes. I really did.

It's ok, I hated myself too.

--

the Halloween reunion scene was...so hard. writing this story was so tough overall, because I had to not only give Modern J&L a reason to fall for each other independently of their last incarnations, but with this, build up to their reunion with enough emotional tension, and then on top of that, create an event or moment that would trigger them both to just lose their minds and reunite, even disregarding The Wedding. and adding the flashbacks on top of that?? GOD.

so. Halloween!

"The broken fragments of her past life are fusing together messily inside her head. Every blink of her eyes is a fleeting, flashing memory.

Mum and dad in Cokeworth. Petunia. Hogwarts. Magic. The war. The Order.

James. Harry.

Lily lurches off of the couch, nauseous, and tumbles down to her knees, hiccuping and gagging as sounds and smells and sights run a blitzkrieg on her brain, and she’s London in the First World War, time-weathered buildings crumbling within her, houses and schools and cathedrals burning into ash, giving way to rubble. It’s too much, to see all of it at once; to be two people, to share all the pain and the fear and the joy in vibrant technicolor."

I really, really wanted to get into the physicality of this. I think it would have to be painful and unpleasant and shocking to remember all of these things, and I think that the magnitude of her realization is part of what makes this moment so important: she doesn't just see flashbacks of a random other life - she has full, unmitigated understanding of who she is AND was. and then, because of this, she realizes she needs to see James there.

--

I loved writing J standing in the rain outside of her apartment. it felt equal parts tragic and sexy LMAO and absolutely something I could imagine him doing.

also, this passage:

"Logically, Lily knows that there are no witches or wizards or wands in this world, understands that whatever earth she lived in for her past life was built on different fundamental elements than this one, but when she throws the door open, she decides that there must be some sort of dormant, kinetic magic swimming below levels of dirt and magma, running subterranean pathways that sizzle and spark."

was so important to me - I had it written pretty much from the outset. because, yeah, I've sort of convinced you all that there's no magic in this world, but to get back to the base of it all: these people are soulmates who have been reincarnated. do we really believe that there's no otherworldly business going on?

another favorite passage appears:

"Their eyes meet, and it’s a star in supernova, the Big Bang, the creation of the universe. Suddenly there are entire galaxies within her, constellations of loss and longing and joy that crystallize under his eyes, shooting to the surface of her skin and attempting to take flight from her body.

A splintered star, Madame Arnaud had called her. A splintered star, looking for its lost fragments.

But to look at a star is to see it burned out, to stare at its ghost as the lightyears of distance trick the eye, and this, too, is true as she look at James; she doesn’t just see him, but the ghost of who he was, the mirror image of him forged from a life of war and magic, one they shared together, a stellar collision in a different cosmos."

yeah I had the two bracketing paragraphs written before I even wrote the Madame Arnaud scene, so then when I realized I'd written a star metaphor, I was like...oh dope! some continuity? as a treat?

--

this moment:

"“You—you left me,” she chokes as this misplaced grief swallows her, bites her in half and leaves her in sawtooth parts. “You didn’t—you didn’t have your wand, James—” (somehow, she knows he’d left it in their bedroom, even without remembering where her own wand had been that night) “—and you—I had to—why did you leave me—”

James reaches for her arms, and she nearly jerks back from his touch, but she hates the distance between them—because, really, isn’t that what this is all about?—so she lets him pull her forward until his face meets her neck, mouthing apologies into her skin."

was also really vital for me. is it logical for her to be mad at him? absolutely not. but she's just been bulldozed by every possible human emotion ever, the biggest of which is grief, so I wanted their first moments to be messy and angry and sad, because I feel like the people we love most are the people we can share those vulnerable moments with without fear of reprisal.

--

THEEE Oops Baby is coming!

I didn't actually think I was going to include this originally, I imagined the end of it being the Halloween reunion and then maybe tacking on an epilogue on Tumblr or something, but I came to the conclusion that I couldn't mention Harry and have him be such a vital part of the story without resolving his arc, too.

does that mean that there might be a real-world Weasley troupe and Granger family out there? POSSIBLY. who knows! I wanted to leave his future up to interpretation, with the only real stipulation being: he's going to have a happy and healthy life with his very alive young parents! because I said so!

--

"When they tell Sirius and Remus, something passes through the two men’s faces—something cloudy and distant, like they’re peeking behind a curtain that only they can see, and in it is some collection of wonders, some world appearing only to them."

anyone catch this moment? I debated it for a WHIIIIILE. but I wanted to give a nod to the fact that the lost souls from the HP canon weren't just Jily, but instead, all of the people lost too young who deserved so much better. Especially those fated to meet, like The Marauders.

--

a final few favorite passages that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside:

"“He’ll be here soon,” James murmurs, more to himself than her. “Not long now.”

Lily looks at him, watches as he traces a fingertip over the soft swell of her belly. Something warm and gentle settles in her chest. It stretches out and loosens its limbs, pressing golden handprints into the space between her lungs and painting murals of sunlight along her ribs.

“Do you hear that, Harry?” She whispers. “Your mum and dad have been waiting for you.”"

and

"James leans up and presses a kiss to her abdomen. “We’ll do it right this time,” he says softly, to her or to Harry or both—she can’t be sure. “We’ll get more time.”

Yes, Lily thinks, they will. She looks up through the bedroom window. The London lights are dimmer than usual tonight, and above them, the sky is twinkling with stars."

YEAH THEY WILL. BECAUSE I SAID SO.

--

I guess the last thing I'll say here is that so much of the premise of this fic came from something a therapist said to me two years ago lmao - which is that trauma is often categorized as 'non-realization'; either the non-realization that an event is happening, or the non-realization that the event has happened, and that it's over, and that you're no longer in it.

this entire piece kind of felt like me exorcising the trauma of Jily's lives out of their bodies. it became super healing to allow them to work through this stuff by getting a second chance but still acknowledging their past life.

so! that seems like a healthy way to deal with fictional characters! ha ha!

--

omg. if you read this whole thing............good god, you are a champ. this was so long.

[skevans]

Nocturne op.72 no.1 — Essay

Hi, welcome to my long-forgotten tumblr I barely remembered existed. Dust and cobwebs aside, this is an essay I initially wrote in French for a Literature class. Don't ask me how the hell I found the will to hand this in to my teacher, bless his soul.

A couple of years later, I found that essay in the depth of a folder on my computer. I remembered what was in it, to a point, but when I decided to read it again, I got very emotional (and very mortified 'cause oh god school). And during the following weeks, I started thinking about a lot of things that were still floating unresolved within my head. But then, I decided to write. And after a few days of internal debate, I posted the first chapter of A Sea of Silence.

It's been months since I finished that story, and those months have not been kind to me for many reasons. And maybe that's why, this week, I started thinking about that essay. When I did, I was overcome with a desire to share it with the world—and especially with the people who read my fic. So here it is, hastily translated but just as honest. Please note that it discusses anxiety.

And so, thank you if you take the time to read this, and an even bigger thank you if you read the essay, too! 

Nocturne op.72 no.1

When I think back on my childhood, I hear the sound of piano. Various melodies follow me, accompanying me in a waltz between memories. It’s my mother’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that haunts the quiet moments. My sister and I would play in an adjacent room, glowing with delight as our mother started the first movement. It’s the piece’s somber and melancholic tone that colours my memory, but it’s a good kind of darkness—the kind that feels like the soft touch of night as you walk under the stars. My mother didn’t stop there; she would segue into the second movement, a graceful interlude that almost got swallowed in between the grandiosity of the other movements. And at last, she would tackle the final piece. I remember the anticipation; I remember wanting to watch her fingers fly over the keys. We would sneak in the living room—don’t make so much noise, you’re gonna bother her!—and thus we became the spectators to a private concert. The combination of semiquavers and staccato, everything played presto agitato, was the most fascinating thing. And despite the intensity and the tempestuous rhythm, I would sense my muscles relaxing, my thoughts lightening, the frenetic beat of my heart slowing. When I listen to this piece now, there’s still a glimpse of that long forgotten peace.

I turn six and I learn the piano. It’s a decision that comes from me, but also from my mother. It’s a decision that pleases me, even enchants me. The learning process goes well; I love to learn and I love to play—a rarely seen fervour seizes me. My motivation originates both from a desire to walk into my mother’s footsteps and from a childish inclination to create noise. The teacher likes me, and the sentiment is reciprocal; she speaks with a soft voice, but underneath there is an unyielding tone that I come to respect. She nudges me forward, constantly making sure that I don’t neglect my practice. I try to meet her expectations because I want to succeed, but also to maintain that impression of calm that possesses me when I sit at the piano.

The next step is to play at a recital, so we set off for the musical conservatory. I’m ten the first time I play before an audience. Panic controls me—I worry I won’t be able to perform, and the thought loops in my mind until I believe it. I climb on the stage in spite of my terror, and the room morphs into a cage. At 10 years-old, the size of the concert hall is intimidating, to a point that my heart crawls up my throat. The exit is far—way too far—and all the stares fixed on me feel more like I’m attending a trial than a recital. My hands become damp (how will I play if my hands slip?), but wiping them on my dress of red velvet means showing my fear—and my father always tells me not to show my fear. So I look at the floor and force my legs to move until finally, finally, I stand before the piano. I sit. Even now, I believe it’s impossible for me to play my piece, that piece I yet find so easy. I take my time adjusting the bench; once done, my hands reflexively settle over the keys. One deep breath—and I start to play. That tranquility I’m so desperate for guides me, and the audience fades from my mind. My eyes track my fingers as they find all the notes—not one mistake—and for a moment, it’s like I’m floating over my body, surrendering utter control to instinct and music. Once the piece ends and my hands lift from the piano, it’s the thunderous applause that tugs me back into reality; I walk off the stage, that paralyzing feeling of fright dismissed.

The feeling that possesses me is anxiety. At 6 years-old, as I begin learning the piano, I don’t know what anxiety is; the only thing I understand is that music offers solace. When I turn 10, I can’t find the word to explain that emotion that assaulted me as I stepped on the stage. It’s with time that I discover the word “anxiety”. I see my reflection in the definitions I find in dictionaries and on the web; it’s those definitions that grasp onto me, that glue themselves over me until I cannot dissociate them from my being without ripping out of my skin. The term “anxiety” now belongs to me—or rather, I belong to it. The years pass and my thoughts cede before it. My anxiety takes control of me for a period of my life; I have lost all mastery of myself. I graduate from high school with terrible difficulty; I drop out of college three times. But anxiety doesn’t stop there; she smears her poison throughout all spheres of my life. My relationship with my family degenerates slowly but surely—so do many of my friendships. Working becomes a hurdle because my boss at the store agitates me with her severe attitude—it feels like nothing is never enough and everything is wrong. I cannot stand myself anymore. Anxiety seeps into my body, an army of swarming bugs that infiltrate all I am as an individual. They contaminate me from the inside, and I am nothing but a puppet, subjected to circumstances out of my control. And this lasts and lasts and lasts for eight years—eight long years. I lose my footing and fall into the arms of depression several times. Appointments with doctors tell me what I already knew. We try solutions and then more solutions; there are good times, scarce but cherished. But happiness and peace of mind slip through my fingers like grains of sand; I grab another handful, but it was never meant to last. These feelings end up seeming distant, unreachable, impossible. I mind myself to the fact that I will have to live with the physical and emotional wounds my anxiety inflicts on me. Time and experience allow me to gauge my level of comfort and how to react; sometimes, I cannot step out of my apartment. And so life goes on—and I am swept away by the tides.

Thinking back on this slice of my life, I’ve come to several conclusions. There were many happenings that were completely out of my control—and yet, as I dig deeper and deeper, I realize that this deviation originates from one thing in particular.

The year I turn 15, I experience an acute pain in my right wrist. Holding a pen for longer than a few minutes is impractical; playing piano on a regular basis is impossible. Those news, validated by a medical consultation, are not surprising—but they are heartbreaking. Later, the pain extends to my shoulder. Within weeks, I become an unwilling witness to the collapse of my dream of studying and teaching piano. The problem comes from within me, within my body—my love for the piano is the trigger to this pain. I’m told that a cure is implausible—you can do exercises to lessen the pain, and you have to eliminate repetitive movements since they will worsen it, and yes, miss, that includes the piano. I used to play piano at least one hour a day, something that unconsciously kept my anxiety at bay—but the inability to play for longer than a few minutes opens the door to my anxiety. I discover myself anew when I’m 16: tirelessly worried, always anxious, terribly distrustful. It’s the start of the downward spiral. I am not me anymore, I am someone else. Anxiety is my mother, instability is my father, fear is my sister. I am reborn into an unknown world dubbed Real Life by my family, who firmly believe this is part of being a teenager. But I don’t believe in this Real Life, and I pray to all and nothing for a miracle. I only know one line of prayer so I make up my own. I fill fictive litanies with my fears and my hopes. Amen. I refuse to consider this existence as True because to me, it can only be False. But my convictions are tossed aside, their dismissal hammered into me endlessly. It’s almost as if a huge neon sign hangs on a wall of my bedroom: Welcome to Real Life! But all I see are ridiculous directives that only bring misfortune—don’t forget to register for our latest draw! Discover what setbacks you will endure next! I don’t want this—I refuse, I reject, I refute. It’s the song of my mind, playing on repeat; I want to believe it—I want to believe it more than anything else because I have exhausted all of my solutions and the future beyond is veiled in uncertainty.

But with time, I realize that simply wanting something, no matter how much, doesn’t mean it will slip into the world through the cracks of my resolve. And so, I begin to toil over my own fate. I try to shape it. I fail. I try again. It’s a cycle with no end in sight. I wander aimlessly through life, and thus I discover more of myself and I try to understand. Questions assail me; most of the time, there is no answer; when there are, they are often unpleasant. Still, I accept them—because I have learned that closing my eyes and rejecting a reality will not bring me anything. This crushing problem, this anxiety that manipulates me, I try to be aware of it—and in the end, I accept it. She is part of me, too intrinsic for me to surrender her; she welded her existence in my foundations, and if I break free, I negate myself. But what crystallizes with time is the recognition that I’m living a fight that I believed lost before even entering the arena. It’s an intimidating fight: my adversary is formidable, and there is no end in sight; it’s an everlasting battle that occurs every hour, every minute, every second. And yet, I am not done—I gather my arsenal, I warm up, and I entre the arena. No referees—this isn’t a fair fight; there cannot be a winner, only moments of victory. My adversary steps forward, and in her, I see me—me as I was for eight long years. The signal goes off and we begin. No turning back now.

Strangely, what helps me survive the daily fights is time. Throughout this turbulent journey, my wrist undertakes its never-ending recovery. Nine years later, the dreadful pain I felt at every move has become a memory. I live alone now, and getting access to a piano is not always easy; neither is it regular. But one day—one day, I decide to try again. I make my way to my mother’s house on a day where she and her husband are absent; the fragility of my resolve hangs over me, and I cannot let it waver out of self-consciousness. In the basement are all of my mother’s sheet music—all of my sheet music—and it takes a lot of searching before I finally find the last piece I learned when I was 15. The last piece I ever played. Too eager, I snatch Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 off the floor, grabbing a few more sheet music from that part of my life forever ago. At last, I sit on the piano bench. I open the booklet, flipping through the pages until I find the Nocturne; it’s one of my favourites, whether by coincidence or a design of my own. But it’s with wretched bitterness that I realize I am unable to play the piece. Not only has it been nine years, but my dexterity has vanished, bidding me goodbye with a mocking smile. My fingers each weigh a pound; I hear myself strike the keys with a mortifying clumsiness; the resulting sound is disappointing, closer to chaotic noise than the flowing music of my memories. Nothing happens like I want it to. However, the same passage of time that helped my injury gave me the strength to cross out the word “abandon” from my vocabulary. I sometimes know victory, more often I know defeat, but what has become unfamiliar is capitulation. So I close the booklet, hiding the piece I yearned for, and I pick another one. It’s an easy piece, but in truth, nothing seems easy anymore; the piece is a crutch, a stepping stone towards more. In time, I will get sick of hearing Chopin’s Waltz op.69 no.2, my mind saturated by the melody from months of practice. It’s a challenge, and I start to get obsessed with the notion of learning this piece, because learning it means I can learn more. Nothing will stop me.

There is progress, but it’s slow and it’s tedious. Each week, I ride the bus to my mother’s house so I can practice for one hour, sometimes two. These hours are precious; I try not to squander them and I try even harder to remind myself this is just the beginning. My wrist still hurts at times; whenever I test my limits, a zap of pain echoes through my hand, signalling the end of the practice. It slows me down, frustrates me to no end, but the possibility of not playing for another nice years snaps me out of those low moments. And one day, six months later, I pick up Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 again. I start with the left hand; the constant rhythm of the triplets played legato rips the stitches of a long-buried wound. A ghost rises out of it—it’s Me as I was, and it possesses me, guiding my hand with its cold touch. I play the first line, then the second; soon enough, I jump to the second page. I am not here, not really; rather, I am lost to that old fragment of beloved peace. Now that I recognize the beast in me as anxiety, I finally understand that those moments of solace happen when I hear the twinkling notes of the piano. And so I get on my feet in the arena and I stand ready to continue the eternal fight. There are other ways to keep anxiety away, to rationalize it, and I think back on my first fifteen years, nearly empty of anguish, full of other pains, but also filled with hours of music. I learn Chopin’s Nocturne in three months. It’s not perfect—it will never be—but I can play it. I play it until I can do so with my eyes closed.

The year I decide to sit at the piano again, I return to school. The first semester is trying; I haven’t studied seriously in over five years—good habits are difficult to unearth. I try to keep my demanding job despite the crushing amount of pressure, but there comes a moment where I cannot breathe under that weight, and stress wins once more. Everything appears ready to crumble before it began. Luckily, my mother realizes that my fragile pyramid of cards is about to fall, and she wakes me up with harsh and well-aimed and true words; we don’t always understand each other then, and feelings get bruised, but in time, things will change for the better. I still fail the classes I took; I search for a new job. My anxiety hit me with an uppercut that could have turned the tables in her favour, but I stand again and again—I stand long enough to finish college a year later. I am 24 the day I hand in my final project that allows me to graduate. As I walk out of the building, there is pride accompanying me, but most of all, it’s a soothing sensation of satisfaction that wraps itself around me. It resembles that peace of mind I find from the piano, and that is what makes me smile.

The next fall, I have my own piano. The opportunity to play whenever is still incredible. Not long before the purchase, the pain in my wrist flares once more, stronger than before. But this time, I know what to expect. I adapt instead of running away; I’m not 15 anymore and I have so much more experience in the suitcase I carry through life. I get tests done in hope of a permanent solution; they reveal nothing new, but the professional advice that follows those tests opens the door to new possibilities to rein in the pain. Those possibilities are comforting in their own way; that absolute sense of defeat is now barely discernable.

I still believe that the Me from over ten years ago will not come back to life; she doesn’t exist anymore; her only vestige is her love for music. But that is alright—I am not the same person I was at 6 years-old when all I knew was the music weaving through the house. I am someone else, so I baptize myself anew. I allow myself the sanctity of a second chance, that unreachable notion always evading me. But this time, I chase it. I grasp it close to my heart. I take it—and I live it.

[kayliemusing]

42: top 3s

1: Top 3 ice cream flavors - classic vanilla, birthday cake/birthday batter, bubblegum

2: Top 3 Disney Movies - Mulan, Onward, Soul (but this changes frequently lol)

3: Top 3 vacation destinations - I've never been outside of my home country so I'll say my top 3 DREAM destinations: NYC, Hawaii, a random countryside in either France or the UK

4: Top 3 places to shop - Dynamite, Sephora, Winners/Homesense

5: Top 3 subjects of study/classes to take - English/anything creative writing related, Interior Decorating/Design, Communications?

6: Top 3 make up products - YSL Touche Eclat Foundation, literally any Mac Lipstick but it has to be matte, & Fenty Beauty contour stick

7: Top 3 music artists - Taylor Swift - Of Monsters and Men - The Lumineers

8: Top 3 spices/herbs - Cinnamon - Nutmeg (literally tastes like autumn) - Paprika

9: Top 3 drinks - Diet Coke - Hot Chocolate - Vanilla Bean Frappe

10: Top 3 apps to use - Instagram - Pinterest -iBooks

11: Top 3 months of the year - May, October, December

12: Top 3 clothing items - My black/white turtle neck, high waisted jeans, plaid blazer

13: Top 3 binge perfect tv shows - Bones, Supernatural, Brooklyn Nine Nine

14: Top 3 romantic dates - (I've never been on a date but if I had, it would be this) Evening walk, late night drive, late night coffee date (tbh anything at night feels romantic)

15: Top 3 kinds of flower - Water lilies, cherry blossoms, roses

16: Top 3 christmas movies - A Christmas Carol (2009), Home Alone, The Polar Express

17: Top 3 OTPs - Nesta and Cassian from ACOTAR series by SJM, Manon and Dorian from Throne of Glass series by SJM, Casteel and Poppy from From Blood and Ash series by JLM.

18: Top 3 quotes to describe your life - "I write not to find, but to leave" by Scherezade Siobhan - "I want to be myself again. I want to be six. I want to stop knowing everything I know" by Catherynne M. Valente - "The truth is, I pretend to be a cynic, but I am really a dreamer who is terrified of wanting something she may never get" by Joanna Hoffman.

19: Top 3 characteristics you love about yourself - my kindness bc it's not surface level kindness, but actually something deeply rooted within me - my resilience even tho sometimes it doesn't feel like resilience - my loyalty bc it is a hard as steel kind of loyalty

20: Top 3 kinds of candy - Maltesers, Kit kats, smarties

21: Top 3 ways to exercise/ be active - Walking, dancing, mowing the lawn/shoveling the sidewalk

22: Top 3 spirit animals - wolf, hummingbird, tiger (i googled it bc i didn't know and i was scared it was a joke but)

23: Top 3 petnames - I like 'lovebug', 'love', 'sweetheart'

24: Top 3 books read outside of school - The Hating Game by Sally Thorne, A Court of Silver Flames by Sarah J Maas but viewers discretion is advised, Crush by Richard Siken

25: Top 3 most used websites - Youtube, Tumblr, Pinterest

26: Top 3 people you last texted - my mom, my bestie megan, and my sister bc they're the only people i text...

27: Top 3 hashtags you use - the only time i use hashtags is if i'm trying to promote some of my writing so I'll usually use writingcommunity, writersonig, poetryonig lol

28: Top 3 instagram accounts you follow - Trista Mateer, Griefmother, obviously taylor swift

29: Top 3 guilty pleasures - buzzfeed quizzes, early 2000s music, romance novels

30: Top 3 summer activities - Going to the zoo, long evening walks, campfires and s'mores

31: Top 3 things to draw/doodle - hearts, flowers, random swirls bc it's the only thing i can doodle...

32: Top 3 aesthetics - cityscape aesthetic, autumn aesthetic, rustic aesthetic

33: Top 3 things you'd buy if you gained three million dollars - a new car, a condo, another cat

34: Top 3 ways to treat yourself - facial, a large bag of maltesers, buying the makeup i really want but have been putting off

35: Top 3 celebrity crushes - Evan Peters, Matthew Daddario, henry cavill

36: Top 3 books from your childhood - Love You Forever by Robert Munsch, The Big Friendly Giant by Roald Dahl, and Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmens

37: Top 3 accents to hear - Australian, super poshy british accent, new zealand accent

38: Top 3 scents - Fresh rain, vanilla, sweet cinnamon pumpkin from bath and body works

39: Top 3 "Friends" quotes - "WE WERE ON A BREAK" -Ross, "Guess things were just going too well for me" -also ross, and "it's so exhausting waiting for death" - phoebe

40: Top 3 cupcake flavors - tbh I haven't tried that many cupcakes so your typical vanilla, chocolate, and Pink Lady Cupcake from Babycakes Cupcakery

41: Top 3 fruits - Pomegranates, Strawberries, Raspberries

42: Top 3 places you've had amazing pizza from - Pizzahut, Dominos, Pizza73

43: Top 3 sports teams to watch - i don't

44: Top 3 crayola colors - uh, i guess red, purple, and pink??

45: Top 3 things you hope to accomplish in college - Certificates/Degrees in Copyediting and Creative Writing, and I think simply just deeper critical thinking skills when it comes to writing and books

46: Top 3 fanfictions you've read - I read more books than fanfics, I've read a couple on tumblr but don't remember the names sorry :/

47: Top 3 people you miss right now - my dad, my best friend bc she's in vancouver, taylor swift bc she's not on tumblr anymore rip

48: Top 3 fears - Failure, Loss, not achieving anything in life/not reaching my full potential

49: Top 3 favorite literary devices - Foreshadowing is always god tier, cliffhangers although evil i love those too, symbolism

50: Top 3 pet peeves - People dragging their shoes on the floor when they walk, when you tell someone your fav hobby/music artist/interest and they immediately go 'oh I hate X!', and people who go 'you're so quiet!!!' but in a way that draws in more attention and/or makes me feel more uncomfortable like i would literally rather die

51: Top 3 physical things you find attractive - Hands, nice hair, defined jawlines

52: Top 3 bad habits - Nailbiting, picking at my blemishes oops, lip biting

53: Top 3 pets you've had/wish to have - Cats bc they complete me, I've always wanted a Samoyed, and I've always wanted a turtle

54: Top 3 types of foreign food - Chicken Chow Mein, deep fried shrimp, japanese chicken wings

55: Top 3 things you want to say to someone in your lifetime - 'I quit', 'I love you', 'you changed my life'

56: Top 3 dog breeds - Samoyed, german shepherds, collies

57: Top 3 cheesy romance movies - You've Got Mail, How To Lose a Guy In 10 Days, 10 Things I Hate About You

58: Top 3 languages you speak/wish to speak - French, Sign, and maybe Japanese?

59: Top 3 series (book, movie, television) - The Cruel Prince series by Holly Black, A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J Maas (but literally only for Cassian and Nesta), From Blood and Ash by Jennifer L Armentrout

60: Top 3 pizza toppings - Mushrooms, alfredo sauce, pineapple

61: Top 3 youtubers you're subscribed to - Game Grumps, Charlotte Dobre, Megan Batoon

62: Top 3 tattoo / piercing ideas - I want to get a tattoo on my wrist of the last thing my dad ever wrote me, a hummingbird tattoo right next to it, and then a cross on my index finger

63: Top 3 awards you want to win - National Book Awards, Nobel Prize, and maybe even Goodreads Choice Awards lol

64: Top 3 emojis - Laugh/Crying emoji, the please sir emoji that kinda gives off those puss n boots eyes, and the stars emoji

65: Top 3 cars you dream of owning - 1970s Chev Impala, tbh a cute little Hyundai Venue, and maaaaybe the 1964 ferarri 250 gt luso (idk if that name was totally right but i had to do tons of googling to find it. i don't know a lot about cars and i don't really have a top 3 lol)

66: Top 3 authors - Right now I'm really into Sarah J Maas, Sally Thorne, and Holly Black maybe?

67: Top 3 historical figures - Jesus, Anne Frank, Vincent Van Gogh

68: Top 3 baby names - Ryder, Leila, Gracie

69: Top 3 DIYs - Candles, refurnishing old furniture (i.e. my mom and i painted our wooden garbage can), and really just any type of autumn diy

70: Top 3 smoothie combos/flavors - Strawberry/Banana, Mango, Strawberry-Mango

71: Top 3 songs of this month - Happier Than Ever by Billie Eilish, Biblical by Calum Scott, and Visiting Hours by Ed Sheeran

72: Top 3 questions of this post you want to be asked - I did them all bc I made it a survey instead of an ask meme ;)

73: Top 3 villains - Regina/The Evil Queen from Once Upon a Time, Cruella De Vil, and Moriarty from Sherlock

74: Top 3 Cities you want to see - Montreal, NYC, Vancouver (honorable mention: LA)

75: Top 3 recipes you want to try - different kind of salad and/or burger bowls, Stuffed bell peppers, and homemade lemon loaf

76: Top 3 dream jobs - Bestselling author, the person who runs a companies social media accounts, youtuber/blogger

77: Top 3 lucky items - tbh don't have one

78: Top 3 traditions you have - Christmas Eve Service and if I don't go to that at least incorporating reading the christmas story on christmas day or eve, idk if this counts as tradition but going to the corn maze every fall, and whenever it's easter/christmas/thanksgiving we always have a big meal w/ family

79: Top 3 things you miss about being a kid - reckless abandon, dreaming about growing up with hopefulness and no dashed hopes, experiencing holidays like halloween and christmas as a kid

80: Top 3 harry potter characters - I've never read or watched Harry Potter rip (ok well i saw the first and second (and maybe third?) movie in the sixth grade I think) but I think I really liked Hermoine, Harry obviously and Dobby

81: Top 3 lies you were told - i don't have 3, but this one has a story but basically when my sister and i were in elementary school my sister got hit by a car and so the insurance thing was that she would recieve 10k when she was 18 and as a child i thought that was unfair so my dad told me that my sister had to split it with me when we were 18 lmao obviously that didn't happen (i think i realized that wasn't true in middle school)

82: Top 3 pictures in your camera roll right now - Pictures of my cat, one of my sister in a hilarious filter, and a picture of my rocking my TS merch

83: Top 3 turn ons - Kindness, defined jawline, easy going

84: Top 3 turn offs - arrogance, unkempt, super loud and obnoxious

85: Top 3 magazines/news papers/ journals to read - I don't read much of those so I'll tell you some sites I love for writing purpose's: there's Wellstoried, justwriterlythings, springhole.net (which is filled with generators if you're stuck and also tons of infomation and advice)

86: Top 3 things you wish you had known earlier - that toad in Mario Party was wearing a mushroom hat and that it is actually not his head, that immaculate means 'clean' before i misused that word like several times over the years, and that the one turn i always take on my way to work where i thought everyone didn't know how to drive was actually bc i didn't have the right of way rip me

87: Top 3 spongebob episodes - the one episode where spongebob and patrick find a ghost ship, that one episode where they form a bikini bottom band and perform it at a football game in a little fish tank, and the one episode where squidward has his first snowball fight

88: Top 3 places to be in the world - I'd love to be in NYC, Montreal, or Hawaii

89: Top 3 things you'd do differently - I would not have applied for RDC, similarly I should have just paid the 500 dollars to the one certificate program I wanted to do instead of overthinking it, and I wish I wouldn't have ended a friendship the way I did

90: Top 3 TV shows from your childhood - Spongebob Squarepants, That's So Raven, and Hannah Montana

91: Top 3 meals you love - Turkey Burgers, Chilli, and Instant Pot Chicken Tortilla Soup

92: Top 3 kinds of tea - i don't drink tea

93: Top 3 embarrassing moments - one time in sixth grade I tripped and fell right on my face in front of my crush, this other time like a couple years ago i opened the door to my car and only realized much too late while i was staring at this random family that it was not my car, and when i went to the gas station to get gas and couldn't get my gas lid on my car opened and this guy had to help me which was already embarrassing enough but then the gas pump wouldn't work so i had to go inside to pay just to realize i forgot my wallet and had to shamefully walk back to my car and then run back inside the convenience store and then pay and then walk back to my car and finally fill my tank.

94: Top 3 holidays to celebrate - Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving

95: Top 3 things to do in the rain - have an existential crisis, pretend you're in a music video, walk through puddles like you're six again

96: Top 3 things to do in the snow - Sledding, Build a snowman, shovel it even tho you don't want to

97: Top 3 items you can't leave the house w/o - phone, keys, wallet

98: Top 3 movies you'd like to see - Jurassic World 3, Hotel Transylvania: Transformania bc i'm a child, and the animation of the addams family

99: Top 3 art mediums - Writing fiction/poetry, painting, music

100: Top 3 museums you've been to - Royal Tyrell Museum, Canadian History one in edmonton lol, and heritage park in calgary

101: Top 3 school memories - Middle school dances when the popular kids would grind to the song "Low" which was always an interesting experience, in the twelfth grade at winter formal when we all shouted "SHUT UP AND DANCE!" at the same time when they played Shut Up and Dance, and the day i left

102: Top 3 things you don't/Won't miss - School, my sisters ex, 2016 bc she was a rough year yikes

103: Top 3 pick up lines - "My name is Will. God's Will.", "I'd like to take you to the movies but they don't like you bring your own snacks", "are you from tennessee bc you're the only 10 i see"

104: Top 3 sports to watch - none of them

105: Top 3 taylor swift songs - all too well - exile - coney island

[sadlittlesquirrel]

october 17th 12:30

tonight i dont know what im really feeling. 

1. Joe jonas. 

2. ****** ******* (french)

3. ***** ***** (also french, but year before)

4. ****** **** (new york)

5. **** ******* (northern) 

im thinking about ****. the way he looked at me. thinking of the first harry potter and the goonies. the touches on my legs when we’re just sitting. then remembering they stopped talking to me because i didnt have sex with them fast enough. the less than and then the happy train is over. 

i think about ****** because why the fuck did i try to hang on to that for so long. they fucking sucked. blamed me for everything and i even made myself think that if i apologized-even though im not wrong-he would like me again. i fucked up there. theres so much i want to say to them but the time has gone and i no longer care to reach out anymore. they have to. on one of my many nights of crying over them, edra said to me that i was only holding on for so long because he was the first person that ive let be physical with me. i realized that it was true, and i was obsessing over it. the need to keep them close to me, hold on the sliver of something that i mostly created in my head. but i dont think he ever was. i think i rarely cross his mind. but thats on him!!! im done and over it. if he wanted more, he will say something have said something. 

i feel like ****** never liked me as much as i liked them. i always thought i was too....odd for them. we liked the similar things, but some of my things were a little dumb...?? for their taste. i liked them because they were funny, we could make a bit together yanno? i liked talking to them and being around them. we’d laugh in our corner of the group at lunch together. they had free period my library aide period and come see me while i put books away, trying not to be too loud to make our librarian send them out for the remainder of the class. but it never got anywhere besides texting constantly and literally parking next to each other and waiting for the other to arrive (the feeling is what i can imagine getting your own drawer at s/o house, for my older viewers out there).they moved to college and thats where it ended. 

**** i met through a friend, at an outing we were invited separately to, but we all had the same 1 class together. keep in mind, theres 5 of us total, thats a chunk of desks. all brought together by one tiny person who to this day, i love. thats a story for another time. one time together and ive been best friends ever since. we were sort of into each other in the beginning, i have screenshots of texts ive received from them, the first time i felt like someone really noticed me. they invited me over and things but i never went. too scared. always too scared. 

i read over old texts and im a little embarrassed. why the fuck was i like that holy fuck man so cringe and desperate im so glad that it took me almost fucking dying to realize that i am more than some girl that is here to please and get a boyfriend, im cool as fuck!!!! i love to read!!!!! and make little crafts!!!!! and laze around and watch movies for an entire day. nothing serves me more than being the person i want to be. im doing to dress how i want to dress!!!!!! i am going to do whatever the fuck i want because it is whatever the fuck it is and i no longer desire to dwell on the past for longer than a minute!!!!! whats happen has happened and now im moving on! if it hasnt mattered organically since, then it doesnt deserve to be thought about again! 

i deserve to be loved out and proud and yelling it at the world and on top of buildings and on billboards, and on a sign pulled by an airplane, a town crier maybe ever millions of fliers made for every tree in the park i dont care but i deserve it!!!!! someone should woe me and make me feel special and make the effort. i should not have to beg for someone to talk to me. 

i deserve some effort...right?

[deanstop13billyjoeltraxx]

Superposition

a deancas college roommate au :)

Chapter 8 is up on AO3! Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here. 

CW: mentions of verbal abuse, homophobia, alcoholism, jail time. instances of smoking. 

some notes: I usually go through and italicize as necessary when I’m posting on tumblr because it doesn’t copy over from my og text, but this chapter is like 6200 words and i’m just not gonna do that. recommend reading on AO3 for the best experience!!

An Exercise in Futility

Three Years Earlier

Castiel was convinced that his life was one massive, cosmic joke.

He’d been considering the possibility for some time. Being the gay son of a homophobic pastor does that to a person. When he discovered, sometime around the age of twelve, that the girls in his Sunday school class were far less interesting than the boys, he could practically feel God laughing at him. Then there was high school, where the religious prattling was replaced by what felt like endless torment at the hands of his peers. 

He felt like college was quickly becoming the third punchline.

Not that things were bad. Things were good, actually, better than they’d been in years. He was learning about things he cared about. He passed his midterms with flying colors. He even had friends. He spent a weekend watching all of the Lord of the Rings with Charlie. He had switched seats in accounting to sit next to Meg.

And, of course, there was Dean. Dean, who dragged Cas to a football game and didn’t drink a sip of alcohol the whole time in solidarity; Dean, who, after Tombstone, insisted on movie night every Tuesday; Dean, who, demanded that Cas print out a copy of one of his short stories and sign it (“When you’re a famous douchebag, this is gonna be worth so much money”).

It seemed that, on all fronts, Castiel had finally capitalized on the collegiate promise of a second chance. 

But by his own estimation, he was doomed.

Because sometimes, his palms started sweating when Dean stood too close. Sometimes, his heartbeat skipped when Dean threw an arm across Cas’s shoulders. Sometimes, Cas woke up from a dream so vivid, he was disappointed to find himself alone in his bunk bed.

He could see how easy it would be to fall in love with Dean Winchester, what with the blond hair and green eyes, bright smiles and southern lilt, funny jokes and considerate actions. The prospect was utterly terrifying, and Castiel was doing everything in his power to stop dwelling on it.

He’d been down the “falling in love with your straight best friend” road before. AP biology class brought Cas a lab partner in Ben Wright. Soccer team captain, A-student, all around nice guy. Maybe Ben didn’t do anything to stop the constant verbal torment, but he never took part in it. At first, being around him was exhilarating. Sharing looks, catching smiles, trading inside jokes; Cas was intoxicated. He was so high on first love that he made the mistake of confiding in Bartholomew. Cas had always considered him to be a role model, friend and brother at the same time. But that night, when Cas came out, Bartholomew looked at him like one might look at spoiled food. He’d agreed not to tell their father, on the condition that Cas never speak about the matter again, that he figure out some way to “cleanse himself.” They hadn’t spoken since that night.

And so the feelings that once propelled Castiel to school with anticipation suddenly made him dread it. Not only did baring his soul to a brother get him a one-way ticket to estrangement, but Ben started dating someone else, a girl from his English class. Now every shared look was painful, smiles were false, inside jokes stopped being funny.

It was somehow worse, knowing Ben could never feel the same way. It certainly didn’t help the feelings of guilt and shame brought by his family.

Cas would do anything not to feel that way again. 

He started by insisting that Dean invite Benny and Charlie to more of their nightly dinners. And while he honestly liked the both of them, he would be lying if he didn’t admit that their presence was, first and foremost, a distraction from Dean. He took up running again, as a way to get himself out of the dorm when Dean decided to stay in. He spent more time studying with Meg.

Meg was shockingly easy to befriend. She wasn’t nice — Cas had watched in shock when, once, she dumped a hot coffee on a skateboarder who had knocked her down on accident — but she never said a mean thing to Castiel. She was like him: a black sheep, the child everyone wished they could forget. Only, where Cas had become an agnostic and gone to college, Meg had become a Satanist and gone to jail for arson.

But this was her new leaf, she told him. Maybe it didn’t matter why someone needed a second chance, only that they were willing to take one.

They had been working for an hour when she threw her pen at his head and said, “Cas, you should come with me to Sig Ep’s Halloween party tomorrow. Be my date.”

Cas took a moment to process the meaning of party + date + with Meg. “Uh, I don’t — well, um, parties aren’t really —”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re allowed to say no, hun.”

Cas panicked. Meg was looking at him expectantly, her resigned smile making it clear she was prepared for rejection.

“Well, I… It’s not because of you — you’re very beautiful, and smart. Actually, you’re one of the most wonderful people I’ve met here.” She grinned at that. “It’s just, I don’t really… Go on dates. With girls.”

She studied him a moment before understanding lit up her face. “Oh.”

Castiel fidgeted with his pencil, refusing to meet her eyes. He’d only ever done this once, and it hadn’t gone well. But he liked having a friend, and more than that, he liked having Meg as a friend. He didn’t want her to think he wasn’t interested because of any fault of her own.

“Cas,” she said. When he didn’t respond, she poked him in the arm. “Castiel.” He raised his eyes. “It’s cool. It’s not like you can just choose to like girls when a pretty one asks you on a date.”

“I… Understand, if you would rather not be friends,” Cas said, cautiously.

“What?” Meg’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Why would I not want to be friends?” She laughed a little. “That would be super ironic, considering I told you I went to juvie and you didn’t bat an eye.”

“Because I’m gay,” Cas said quietly, looking down again.

Meg grabbed both his hands. “Cas, hun, there’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

He looked up again, eyes wide. “What? I mean, I know that, I just… Not everyone does.”

Meg smiled sadly at him and gripped his hands a little tighter. “Well, I do. No biggie. We’re going to be iconic together, you and I. Sexiest gay-straight alliance of all time.”

Cas smiled weakly, relief flooding his entire body. “Thank you, Meg. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to make any judgements on your character. It’s just… This,” he motioned at the air between them, “has never gone well for me.”

Meg shook her head. “That’s a shame,” she said. “I haven’t known you that long. But I think I can tell that you — all the parts of you — are awesome.”

“You can still come to the party,” she added after a moment.

Cas shook his head, capping and uncapping his pen repeatedly. “Parties… They’re not really my scene.”

“All right. You know who to call if you change your mind.”

                   On Halloween, Castiel returned from his nightly run to find Dean pulling on a flannel. He checked his watch — he had barely made it. 6:57 pm.

“Right on time,” Dean said. “I was about to leave without you.”

“I would have never forgiven you if you did,” Cas joked. Then, “Are Charlie and Benny coming?”

“Nah, they’re both busy tonight. Halloween parties, you know.”

“Oh.” Castiel took a large sip of his water. “You’re not attending a Halloween party?”

Dean shrugged. “Wasn’t really feeling it tonight. Plus, I have a feeling you’ve never seen The Exorcist?” When Cas shook his head, Dean rubbed his hands together. “Oh man, we are totally watching it tonight. Unless you’re busy,” he added, raising his eyebrows at Cas.

“I’m not,” Cas replied. Dean knew this already, of course, otherwise Cas might have made something up. The waters in which he tread got more dangerous each day. He couldn’t escape the warm feeling flooding his chest at the idea of Dean ditching the parties for a movie night.

It was precisely that feeling that caused him to hurriedly ask, “Would you mind if I invited Meg to dinner?”

“Who?” Dean asked, lacing up his boots.

“Meg Masters. She’s the friend from accounting that I told you about.”

“Ah,” Dean said. “Right. What, just me isn’t good enough anymore?” Cas thought he was joking, but it seemed forced.

“Dean —”

“I’m kidding, man,” Dean said with a short laugh. “Sure, she can come.”

Castiel hurriedly splashed his face with cold water and shed his sweaty t-shirt in favor of a hoodie. Dean feigned a sniff in his direction and made a face, to which Cas replied with an eye-roll. As they left their dorm, Cas sent a text to Meg.

CN (7:02 pm)

Would you like to get dinner with Dean and me?

CN (7:02 pm)

Unless you’re already at your party, in which case, be safe.

MM (7:03 pm)

Party not til later. hot roommate dean?

CN (7:04 pm)

...Is that a yes?

MM (7:04 pm)

Yes please ;) shocker dining?

CN (7:05 pm)

Yes. We’ll meet you there.

Dean grabbed a burger and an inordinate amount of fries while Castiel loaded his plate with spaghetti and a salad. Meg walked into the dining room just after he and Dean sat down, and Cas waved her over.

“Meg,” he said, offering her the seat next to his, “this is Dean Winchester. Dean, this is Meg Masters.” Dean smiled at her with a mouthful of french fries. Cas dropped his head in exasperation.

“Pleasure,” Meg said with a half-cocked smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Dean shrugged. “I am pretty awesome. Can’t say the same about you, though.”

Cas went bright red. He shot Dean a glare, then turned to Meg. “He’s joking —”

Meg’s grin only widened, and she giggled. “It’s all right, Cas, I’m not very interesting.” She raised an eyebrow at him. He became extremely intent upon eating his dinner.

Dean stared at her for a moment, chewing a bite of burger. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You know Cas from accounting?”

“That’s right,” Meg said brightly.

“So he’s your tutor or somethin’?”

Cas interjected. “Actually, Meg is far more capable than I am. She essentially taught me everything about liabilities.”

“Adorable,” Dean grumbled.

“Isn’t it?” Meg asked sweetly. “And you’re his roommate.”

“Yep.”

“Lucky you.” She gave him a wink. Dean choked on his diet Coke, and Castiel prayed to whomever was listening that he might cease to exist.

“Meg,” he said, giving her a pointed look, “did you finish the homework?”

She pulled her eyes away from Dean. “Yeah, I did.” She dropped her voice. “Did you want to go over it? At my place?” She winked at Cas, who stared at her in horror. Why was she acting like this? “You know,” Meg continued, “We can do other things too. Besides accounting.”

Dean cleared his throat loudly. “I’m gonna go grab some more fries. Do y’all want anything?” 

Cas and Meg shook their heads. When Dean had left the table, Cas gave Meg a death stare.

“What’s wrong with you?” He hissed. “I thought we covered this —”

“Yes, Cas, hun, I know you’re extraordinarily gay,” Meg said with an eyeroll. “I’m not actually interested. I’m just conducting an experiment.” 

Cas narrowed his eyes. “What ‘experiment’—”

He closed his mouth abruptly and leaned away from Meg when he saw Dean returning from the buffet line. He returned to his seat, looking between Cas and Meg suspiciously. Cas downed his water in one swift action.

“So, Dean,” Meg said after taking a bite of her pizza. “I hear you’re educating our friend here on pop culture.”

Dean didn’t bother to look up at her while he swirled a fry in ketchup. “Guess so.” 

Cas cleared his throat to interject. This direction of conversation was much better. “Meg asked what my favorite movie was,” he explained to Dean, who still hadn’t looked up from his plate. “I told her about how much I liked Back to the Future when we watched it last week.” 

Dean gave him a small smile. “Yeah, that movie’s friggin’ awesome.”

Cas turned to Meg. “We’re watching The Exorcist tonight.” 

Meg gasped dramatically. “So that’s why you blew off our date?”

Dean sputtered into his drink. “Date?” He said through a cough.

Cas looked helplessly at Meg, who unhelpfully smiled back. He was going to have words with her after this. 

“I asked him to come to the SigEp party, but he said he was busy,” Meg said, feigning a pout. “But I get it, parties aren’t really Cas’s thing, anyway.”

Dean’s eyes flickered quickly between Cas and Meg. “All right, am I missing something?” He asked. His leg was bouncing against the table leg, hard enough that Cas’s plate was vibrating. 

Cas looked at him, panicked, and stuttered out, “I don’t —”

“Like what?” Meg asked, sipping on her water.

“You his girlfriend or somethin’?”

This question delighted Meg. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Dean turned to Cas with an exasperated look. “Well?” He prodded.

Cas was sure he was about three different shades of red at this point. “What — I — no,” he sputtered.

Dean seemed to relax a little. Meg was still grinning like a madman. “There you go,” she said.

Castiel could not formulate a single coherent thought. He was confused as to how they even ended up here. The silence between the three of them was thick and awkward. Meg paid it no mind, just popped a strawberry in her mouth and gave Dean a sickly sweet smile. Dean excused himself to use the restroom, hitting his leg on the table and nearly tripping over his chair. Once he had left, Meg turned to Cas, her eyes sparkling.

“You are so in,” she said.

“What the hell was that?” He asked her. “What just happened?”

“He thinks I’m into you,” she explained. She took a bite of her pizza, then continued, “And he thinks you might be into me. And he hates that.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Cas scoffed.

Meg laughed, throwing her head back. When Cas fixed her with a glare, her eyes widened. “You really don’t see it?”

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s nothing to ‘see’. I already told you.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever, you’ll thank me later.”

“For creating what is perhaps the most awkward dinner I’ve ever had in my life?”

She waved him off. “Don’t be such a baby, it wasn’t that bad.”

Cas gave her a look that suggested otherwise. She sighed.

“Look, the way you talk about him…” Meg grabbed Cas's hand when he rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. You like him, and now you know he likes you too.” She sat up proudly. “I just did all the heavy lifting for you.”

“Right,” Cas said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Obviously, this interaction points to an inevitable romantic encounter. Except, and I think this is important, Dean is not gay.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Well, the way he looks at you, he’s not straight either. Plus, he apparently still thinks you’re straight, so you two haven’t had that conversation yet. He could be flamingly bisexual and you would never know.”

“This conversation is exhausting.” Cas felt like he was watching a Disney Channel Original Movie, and Meg was a fifteen-year-old matchmaker.

Meg laughed. “I’m sure you’ll survive. By the way, did you actually want to go over the homework this weekend?”

“Yes,” he said, relieved at the change in subject.

Dean returned then. “Are y’all done?” He asked, pointing to their plates. Cas and Meg both nodded, offering “thank you’s” as Dean took their plates to the dish rack. They followed him to the exit, the crisp air sending a chill through Castiel.

“Did you want me to walk back with you, Meg?” Cas offered.

She beamed at him. “You’re so sweet, but no. I’m getting an Uber to Sig Ep, anyway.” She dug into her coat pocket and pulled out something small and black. “Plus, if anyone tries anything, they’ll find themselves electrocuted. Just a little bit.”

Cas grinned. Dean raised an eyebrow.

“See you on Monday, Cas,” Meg said, giving him a hug that lasted just a touch too long. “It was good to meet you, Dean.”

“You too,” Dean muttered.

They watched her walk away for a moment. Cas wanted to avoid looking at Dean for as long as humanly possible. He had no idea how he was supposed to explain the previous interaction.

“So,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “She’s… Nice.”

“She is,” Castiel agreed earnestly. “Dean, I’m sorry, Meg can be a bit…” He struggled to find an adequate descriptor. “I think she enjoys others’ discomfort a bit too much, sometimes,” he finished.

Dean let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. It’s not a big deal, man.”

They stood in silence, Dean looking at the ground intently, Cas tugging on the strings of his hoodie. Dean kicked a rock, then sighed. “You, uh, you ready to head back?”

“Yes,” Cas replied.

The walk back to their dorm was quiet. Castiel couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought Dean looked bothered. He felt bad — he had honestly expected for Meg and Dean to get along. He had thought them to be similar in their confident and boisterous personalities. Now, he wondered if that was precisely the problem. Too much personality at the same dinner table. He winced internally at his own poor judgement. Meg obviously took no issue with the encounter, but he worried that Dean might hold it against him.

Dean let them into their room, then wrinkled his nose at Cas once more. “Dude, seriously, go take a shower. You’re gross.”

“Actually, I enjoy the feeling of my sweat drying all over my skin. I was thinking of going straight to bed like this. It’s not as if I didn’t take a shower because of your constant insistence upon eating meals at the same time every day”

Dean made a gagging motion. “Hey, we had an appointment, and you were almost late. How is that my fault?”

Cas just rolled his eyes and gathered his things to head to the showers. He let out a muttered, “Crap” when he realized nearly all of his laundry was dirty. He’d been busy this week, and running every day tended to render his clothes unwearable after a single use. He made a mental note to do laundry first thing in the morning. He was able to find an old pair of gym shorts, but not a single t-shirt remained in his closet. Cas groaned inwardly. So he would simply have to sit next to Dean for approximately two-and-a-half hours, shirtless. Fantastic.

When he returned from his shower, Cas found Dean cooking two bags of popcorn, the title menu of The Exorcist already on screen. Dean stood up from the microwave when Cas entered, and was halfway into a thumbs-up when he did a double take.

“Uh… We goin’ shirtless tonight, Baywatch?” He said, tugging at his collar.

Castiel tilted his head. “I don’t understand that reference.”

“Of course you don’t,” Dean said with a chuckle. “Seriously, though, dude.”

Cas sighed as he sat on their beanbag. “I have a lot of laundry to do tomorrow,” he said by way of an explanation.

Dean didn’t respond, but made his way to his own closet. He ruffled through it for a moment before Cas was hit in the face by a t-shirt.

“Here, just wear one of mine,” Dean said. He coughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “‘S kinda cold in here, anyway.”

Cas held up the shirt. It was a Led Zeppelin graphic tee, vintage, from their tour in 1977. Cas raised his eyebrows at Dean.

“It’s pretty awesome right?” Cas donned the t-shirt. “Sammy got it for me from a Goodwill a couple years ago. Another of my prized possessions.” He looked at Cas with feigned scrutiny. “Looks good on you,” he said.

Cas played with the hem as he said, “Thank you.” Dean coughed again and walked back to the microwave to retrieve their popcorn. The air was palpable with awkwardness.

Dean turned out the lights. They settled onto the beanbag, as had become custom in the last few weeks. 

Not even thirty minutes in, Dean’s phone began to ring. “Hey, my brother’s callin’, can you pause it?” Dean said.

Cas obliged, and Dean stood as he said, “Hey, Sammy, how’s it goin’?”

Cas sat awkwardly with his hands in his lap, doing his best not to eavesdrop on Dean’s conversation. Though, he supposed if it was private, Dean could have moved to the hallway. Instead, he leaned against the door, twisting the beaded bracelet on his left hand. 

“He did what?” Dean suddenly yelled, and Cas jumped. Dean shot him a quick apologetic look. “

“Sammy, calm down, it’s okay,” Dean said, and Cas couldn’t pretend to not listen anymore. He looked at Dean with a silent question, but Dean was staring hard at the wall, his free hand balled into a fist. 

“Put him on the phone,” Dean said in a low voice. A pause. “What, so now he’s allowed to treat you like shit whenever he wants?” Another pause. A slow exhale from Dean. “No, you’re right. I don’t… I won’t make it worse.” Pause. “Do you want me to come down there? Because I will, you know I will.” 

Dean was silent for a long moment before asking, “Are you sure?” He sighed at whatever his brother said on the other line. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything, I guess. And Sam? I’m really fucking sorry. I should’ve stayed, I don’t…” He trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I know. Yeah. Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” 

Dean lowered the phone from his ear. He stood silently for a moment, angry gaze directed at the floor. Then, causing Cas to jump once more, he turned and hurled his fist at the door. 

There was a loud thud upon impact, and then Dean was yelling “Fuck! Goddammit!” as he cradled his hand. Cas stood abruptly, but had no idea what to do. He walked toward Dean, cautiously.

Dean’s eyes were closed, and he was heaving deep breaths. Cas put a hand on his shoulder. “Dean?” He ventured.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled, still not looking at Cas. “I just — Fuck, that was so stupid,” he said, shaking out his affected hand. “Sorry,” he repeated to the wall. 

“It’s fine,” Cas said, even though he thought it definitely wasn’t. “What happened?” 

Dean just shook his head. Cas’s hand remained on his shoulder. He tightened his grip, a little nervous that Dean might shove him off. “Dean,” he persisted. “You can tell me.” 

Finally, Dean looked at him, and Cas thought if that level of rage was ever directed at him, he would promptly die. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Are you all right?” 

“No,” Dean growled. “I gotta — I don’t know, I need to calm down. I don’t actually want to break something,” he said, motioning to the door. “I’m gonna go for a smoke.” 

Cas dropped his hand and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll go with you.” 

“Cas —” Dean started, but Cas silenced him with a look. He grabbed one of Dean’s flannels from his desk chair and threw it at him. Dean caught it with a cross between surprise and irritation. Cas grabbed his own windbreaker and put it on, looking expectantly at Dean. 

“Are we going?” He asked. 

Dean looked at him as if he was trying to decide whether arguing was worth it. A sigh confirmed that it wasn’t. He silently pulled on his flannel and opened the door, ushering Cas through before exiting himself. 

They walked in silence, despite the fervor of Cas’s concern and curiosity at Dean’s outburst. Dean’s jaw was set, and he took a long, slow breath when they hit the crisp fall air. When they reached the Impala, Cas silently moved to lean on the hood while Dean retrieved his lighter and a cigarette. 

Dean joined Cas as he took a long draw. He exhaled the smoke upwards, his eyes closed. His face was still turned to the sky when he asked, “This really doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

Dean brandished his cigarette in answer, turning to raise an eyebrow at Cas. 

Cas shrugged. “It’s not particularly comforting. But, there are worse things.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up thoughtfully. “Besides, you’ve been smoking for years. If anyone could convince you to quit, your random college roommate isn’t the most likely option.” 

Dean gave him a strange look before exhaling another plume of smoke. He coughed a little. “I think you have long passed the line between ‘random roommate’ and ‘new best friend.’”

Cas gave a little chuckle. “That’s good to hear.” Inside, his world was falling down and rebuilding itself anew. Dean thought of Cas as his best friend. Cas had never known that feeling, to have someone care about him like that. Cas wondered if that could be enough, being Dean’s best friend.  

He didn’t say anything more, though, just let Dean finish his cigarette. After throwing the butt on the pavement and stomping on it, he heaved a sigh. 

“My dad…” He started, but paused. “He, uh, he said some stuff to Sam. My brother.” 

Cas nodded, doing his best to keep his face neutral. Talking things through wasn’t Dean’s strong suit, and Cas didn’t want dramatics to make it more difficult. 

“What did he say?”

Dean shifted and rubbed his hands together. “Bunch of bullshit. ‘It’s your fault your Mom’s dead, it should have been you instead of her.’” Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I mean, he used to say that to me. He gets into these moods when he drinks, says a bunch of shit he doesn’t mean.” 

Dean shoved himself off the hood and began to pace in front of Cas. “But I could take it, you know? Sammy’s just a kid. He doesn’t need to hear that.” 

“Your father says things like this often?” Cas asked, a tinge of horror in his voice. 

“He used to. But only to me. Never to Sam.” 

Cas took a deep breath, trying to discern how best to proceed. “Dean,” he said slowly, “he shouldn’t say those things. Ever. Not to Sam, and not to you.” 

“I’m just confused,” Dean said. “And pissed. Sam and him are usually okay. I mean, they’re not buddies or anything, but Dad leaves him alone for the most part.”

“I don’t want to overstep,” Cas said, “But it seems like your father used you as an outlet for misplaced rage. A punching bag, if you will. And now you’re gone, so Sam is the next best thing.” 

Dean met Cas'seyes with a horrified look. “God. I didn’t… You’re right. Shit, this is my fault, I can’t believe I —”

“No, Dean,” Cas growled. He stood and grabbed Dean by both shoulders. “This is your father’s fault. Not yours.”

“But I left Sam, alone, with him,” Dean said, and Cas could see panic rising in his eyes. “How could I do that, why —” Cas interrupted him again. “Why did you decide to attend college, Dean? What’s the real reason?”

“What?” Dean gave him an incredulous look. “I don’t know.” 

Cas tilted his head down, skeptical. 

Dean let out a long sigh. “Okay, all right. I went because Sam is smart, and he needs to go. But we don’t have any money. So I figured if I came and got a degree or some shit, I could make enough to throw him some cash while he goes to school. Get some summer internships and save up for his college fund. He’d probably still have to take out loans and stuff, but if I got a good job, I could help him pay them off.” 

Cas wasn’t sure what answer he had expected, but it wasn’t that one. He felt his heart break for the man standing in front of him, who did everything he could and more for the people he cared about and never felt like it was enough. 

“Would Sam ever hold that against you?” When Dean didn’t respond, Cas continued. “I know I wouldn’t. I have four older siblings, and not a single one of them has ever done something like that for me.”

“But—”

“You’re making yourself miserable over something that isn’t your fault,” Cas said. “Did you have anyone protecting you when your father went on a tirade?” 

“No, but—”

“Is Sam incapable of handling himself?”

“No, but Cas—”

“He’ll be alright, Dean,” Cas insisted. “You can’t live your whole life as his shield. You’ll break yourself trying.” 

Dean was silent, and wouldn’t  meet Cas's eyes. Cas dropped his hands and leaned back against the Impala. “Did you ever think that Sam might have wanted you to go to school simply so you could get yourself out? Did you ever think that Sam hates the way your father treated you as much as you hate what he did to Sam tonight?” 

Dean pursed his lips together, but his jaw relaxed slightly. Finally, he muttered, “I guess I never thought about it like that.” 

Cas felt relief wash over him. He’d never seen Dean like this — angry and frantic. Cas wondered if Dean always did this, shouldered the blame for every bad thing his brother had to endure. The thought made his chest hurt. 

Dean’s hands were hanging limply at his side. He looked exhausted. Against his better judgement, Cas grabbed Dean by the forearm and pulled him into a hug. Dean was still for a moment, but then sighed and rested his head on Cas's shoulder. 

“Sorry, man,” he said. “I didn’t mean to act like that, punching things and shit. I just get so angry, and I don’t know what to do with it.” 

Cas was trying very hard to form a coherent thought. “There’s no need for apologies. I understand.” 

A chuckle escaped Dean’s lips. “You must think I’m a complete nutjob, huh?” 

Cas tilted his head in consideration. Dean’s hair tickled his cheek. “No. I think your father spent years verbally abusing you, and you’re doing your best in spite of that.” 

Dean broke the hug abruptly. The sudden space between them felt criminal. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s abuse…” He started, but, at Cas's look, he trailed off. Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks, Cas,” he said quietly. “Honestly, dude, I don’t know what I would have done without you.” 

Cas's cheeks warmed, and he shrugged. “You would have done the same for me.” 

Dean gave him a small smile. Cas’s heart nearly broke with relief. “I’m beat,” he said. “Bed?” 

Cas nodded eagerly. “Bed.” 

When they reached the stairs, Dean broke the heavy silence.

“So…” He began. There was a false brightness in his voice; he was obviously searching for levity. “You hanging out with your girlfriend tomorrow?” 

“If you’re referring to Meg, she’s still not my girlfriend,” Cas replied vacantly. “And yes.” He suddenly felt exhausted. First the mortifying dinner with Meg, then the heavy conversation with Dean. He hardly had it in him to field jokes about Meg being his girlfriend.

“She’s not your girlfriend yet,” Dean amended, giving Cas a smirk that didn’t meet his eyes. 

And what was Cas supposed to say to that? Meg was funny and smart and beautiful. She and Cas studied together on the regular. There was absolutely no reason he shouldn’t be interested in Meg from Dean’s perspective. 

Of course, if Dean knew he was gay… 

Cas didn’t know if he could face the consequences of coming out to Dean. Would he be upset that Cas hadn’t told him earlier? Would he be uncomfortable with a gay man as his roommate? As his friend? Cas may have expanded his social circle, but he still couldn’t bear to lose Dean. 

But, then again, Dean had defended him once already, without knowing whether or not he was gay. He’d sounded indifferent to the possibility then. And just tonight, he’d called Cas his best friend. Dean cared more deeply for his friends and family than anyone Cas had ever met. Cas was in that group. Dean wouldn’t shove him out of it because of who he loved.

Right?

As they reached the entrance to their hall, Dean poked Cas in the shoulder. “Hey, Earth to Major Tom,” he said. “You okay over there?” 

Cas realized he hadn’t said a word since they started their ascent up the stairs. He sighed heavily.

Perhaps this was as good a time as any. 

“Dean,” he said, but closed his mouth. He should just say it. He had nothing to worry about. This wasn’t Bartholomew. He knew that, but the words remained stuck in his throat.

“What?” Dean said, eyebrows raised. “Cas,” he prodded, waving a hand in front of Cas’s face. 

“I’m not…” Cas swallowed. “I will never date Meg,” he finished, with a pointed look. 

Dean side-eyed him as they walked to their door. “What, she’s not your type?” 

Cas gave him a lopsided smile. “You could say that.” 

“I dunno, man, maybe you should reconsider, you two are pretty adorable, in a gross way —”

“Dean.” Cas was about to rip his hair out. He wasn’t taking the hint. “She’s not my type. She’s a girl.”

Realization dawned on Dean’s face. “Oh,” he said.

“I apologize for not telling you sooner,” Cas said, bracing for the worst. “If that makes you uncomfortable, I understand —”

“What?” Dean practically shouted. At Cas’s look of surprise, he lowered his voice. “No, Cas, are you kidding? I thought I told you, after all that shit with Cole. It’s not a big deal.”

“Knowing your roommate might possibly be gay and knowing he is, indeed, gay are two very different things.”

Dean looked at Cas like he had just made the worst joke in the world. “I’m not gonna, like, try to move out.” As they approached their room, Cas stared resolutely ahead, walking with purpose. But Dean jumped out in front of him, a hand on Cas’s chest to stop him in his tracks. 

“Dude, it’s gonna take more than that to get rid of me. I lost my shit and punched a door, like, an hour ago, and you barely even blinked.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest.

Cas met Dean’s eyes and found unparalleled sincerity.

“I don’t… You’re not the least bit upset?” Cas asked, slightly incredulous. 

Dean shrugged. “You’re my best friend, Cas,” he said as he straightened. “Nothing’s gonna change that.” He pulled on his bracelet. “I do feel bad though, for making you feel like you couldn’t tell me. Not that you had to, or anything,” he added in a rush.  

Cas shook his head vigorously. “It has nothing to do with you, Dean. I’m… I’m new at this,” Cas explained. “The first time, with Bartholomew… I believe he was, as you would say, a dick about it.” 

Dean’s eyes turned stormy. “Bastard,” he said. “I’m sorry, Cas. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.” 

Cas nodded. “You’re right. It was rather unfortunate. I haven’t spoken to him since the night I told him I was gay.” 

Dean moved back to Cas’s side and slung an arm around his shoulders. “His loss,” he said. “You’re friggin’ awesome, dude.” 

Cas smiled. Dean patted him on the back and let the two of them into their room. 

Cas brushed his teeth and climbed into bed. Dean returned minutes later from a shower, and he flipped off the lights as he made his way to his own bunk. 

Cas pulled off Dean’s shirt and threw it across the room. Dean’s head caught it, and he yelped.

“Thank you for the loan,” Cas said, smiling. 

An odd expression crossed Dean’s face before he threw the Zeppelin shirt back to Cas. “Keep it,” he said. When Cas gave him a confused look, he put a hand on the back of his neck. “I meant what I said. Looks good on you.” 

---------

tagging @nguyenxtrang :)))

[bouwrites]

Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 17

Despite the overwhelming odds, tomorrow came.

First, Previous. Ao3.

And we come to the final chapter. Thank you all so much for reading! It was a delight to be able to share this story with you. Be well, and stay safe <3

Story under read-more.

“Honestly, I’m just relieved that you and Jon actually realized you’re in love with each other. I’ve been hanging out with Tamias recently and, God.”

Marinette rolls her eyes at her friend. “It wasn’t like that. It’s not like I was secretly pining since I met him. Or, not-so-secretly.” She snorts good-naturedly, thinking of the boys.

Louise loudly guffaws. “Marinette, you two were so transparent from the moment we met you. There’s no way you weren’t already in love with him then.”

“I wasn’t! I loved him, yeah, but not like that.” Marinette pouts a little. “Just because I fell in love with him later doesn’t mean we were always in love. We really were just friends. Our pining lasted like, two days.”

Kasey smirks mischievously. “I don’t know why you’re trying so hard to defend it when you’re literally dating him now, but go off, I guess. You were married from the moment you moved in together. I bet.”

“We’re good roommates.” Marinette rolls her eyes. “And we had our share of problems. And I wasn’t in love back then. When we met, I was still dating Adrien, you know, and it took a long time to get over him. No, I fell in love with Jon when he brought me out into a starlit field on Thanksgiving and made me a heartfelt speech about how much I mean to him. I mean, I’m not made of stone! Who wouldn’t fall in love when he does that?”

Kasey groans loudly. “That’s so freaking cute, oh my god. I hate that I know that Jon is exactly the kind of person who would do that.”

Louise giggles even more, covering her mouth with her hand. “I hate that he totally did that without even thinking about it being romantic. I bet he fell in love with you at the same time, didn’t he?”

Marinette is loath to admit it, but… “Yes. That’s exactly how it happened.”

The other girls cackle at the thought and, wiping a tear from her eye, Kasey says, “Now, if only David and Tamias could have a starlit romp through a field.”

“Heavens no.” Marinette says immediately. “David and fields? We don’t want to start wildfires.”

“What is with him and fire, anyway?” Louise asks. “He’s not even a pyrotechnic; things just happen.”

“We don’t question it.” Marinette answers. “We just try to minimize the damage.”

“Probably smart.” Kasey says. “He’s got an internship this semester, right? I hope everything catching fire around him doesn’t affect that too bad.”

“Seems to be going alright so far, though Jon would know better than me.” Marinette hums. She sits back, thinking about David’s internship and the seemingly unanimous worry about what comes after college. It’s the last semester for most of them. That thought is still surreal to Marinette. It feels like just yesterday she packed her bags for her very first trip to American soil. “Can you guys believe we’re going to graduate?”

Both girls groan loudly. “It’s so exciting!” Kasey says, though her voice is less enthused than her words. “But also, I’m terrified.”

Louise nods sagely. “I feel like I haven’t learned nearly enough to have a degree!”

Marinette giggles. “Are you going for a Master’s, then?”

Louise nods. “If I can afford it. I’m still budgeting, but my job right now is pretty good, so it should be fine. What about you?”

“Maybe.” Marinette says. “Honestly, I haven’t given much thought to what happens after graduation. I’ll have to talk to Jon about what his plans are, but… yeah, I’ll probably work on my Master’s. Depending on what we decide, I might do that somewhere else, though. I don’t know if Jon wants to go back to Metropolis, or what.”

Kasey coos. “You’d follow him to Metropolis?”

Marinette shrugs. “Why not? Metropolis may not be Paris or New York, but they’ve still got a flourishing fashion scene. It’s not like I’m just following my boyfriend – I can see a future in my career there, too, so right now, since I don’t have it all figured out yet, it’ll work just as well as staying here. Or even going back to Paris. I’m not sacrificing anything doing that, and frankly I think it’d be cool to live in Metropolis, even if it’s just for a while. You know?”

“I totally understand.” Kasey nods eagerly.

Louise giggles. ‘Plus, if Jon is planning on a writing job, he’ll have a much harder time in Paris trying to do that in French.”

“His French is actually pretty good!” Marinette says in his defense. “I’ve been practicing with him, and he’s been at it for more than a year now, so he’s not that bad. You’re right, though. He hasn’t had a firm idea for what kind of job he wants, not that he’s told me, anyway, so if he’s planning on just joining the reporting scene like his parents, even just as a temporary job, it’ll be much more difficult for him in Paris. At least, more difficult than designing will be for me in America.” Marinette hums, holding a hand to her chin. “Something else to consider, I guess.”

“Sounds like you and he need to talk about it.” Kasey says. “You’re running out of time, fast.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Marinette signs. “What about you, though? Any plans for a graduate degree?”

Kasey flushes a little and shakes her head. “N-no. I’m still just worried about finding a job.”

Louise pats her back gently. “Easily the worst part.” She says. “The job search sucks. But you’ll get through it!”

Marinette groans in agreement. I need to remember to thank Uncle Jagged again. She thinks. Even with her name tied to his giving her massive opportunity within the industry, looking for jobs still sucks. She’s so fortunate to have consistent (celebrity, no less) clients, so she’s sitting pretty well working on commission. But she does want a more stable income just for future-proofing. She even has the luxury of, what she’s thinking of doing, trying to start her own label right out of the gate instead of working for a brand first.

It probably would have been smarter to keep her identity secret until she set that all up and use Jagged’s announcement to prop up her new label, but… that’s hindsight, Marinette supposes. Jagged Stone is still big enough that she’ll turn heads when she does announce it regardless.

Either way, she’s keeping her options open for now. But she’s so lucky. The only reason she’s even looking for jobs is the option and experience – she doesn’t need it. Marinette tries her best to appreciate that.

She definitely needs to talk with Jon, though. Which she will do, if tests don’t murder her first.

To be fair, midterms aren’t all bad. Marinette has a good groove going – she nails it down during their third year so this is just slight alterations here and there to adjust for this semester’s schedule. Still, she can see that diploma and she sure as hell is not going to slack off and let herself lose it now.

Plus, they have a whole semester. Yes, they need to plan and prepare, but it’s not that urgent just yet. Despite how graduation seems to loom over them, it’s still months away. It makes it a little too easy to put the talk out of her mind and focus only on the more immediately approaching tests.

That said, Marinette knows it’s irresponsible to keep putting it off. Marinette is reminded of it regularly when Tikki brings it up during their chats. Wayzz reminds her often, too, but if Tikki, who only gets out of the Miracle Box much more sparingly these days, uses her valuable time with Marinette to worry over it, it must be worse than Marinette thinks.

Then again, it is Tikki, so maybe not. Tikki’s a chronic worrier, after all.

But Marinette ends up surprised when it’s Jon that brings the subject up. They’re on their sofa, playing a video game together, when Jon says suddenly, “I keep meaning to ask, what’re you planning to do after graduation?” Marinette blinks up at him for a moment, because despite the question being on her mind, it’s still unexpected now. “I mean,” Jon chuckles awkwardly, “I know you’re already making a living off designing, so maybe nothing much will change there? But, uh… are you going to move back to Paris?”

Marinette smiles gently. “I was actually meaning to ask you that.” She sighs. “Someday after graduation I’m going to start a label. I need to get people and get all the prep work done for that, and I’m probably not going to work too hard on starting that until graduation, so that’s a while off, and I was thinking of working on a Master’s degree, but… as for where, I was going to ask you. I can make my label anywhere, and I can live off commission until I get that sorted, but since I don’t know what kind of job you’re looking for, I was thinking you’d probably decide where we go.”

Jon flushes red. “You were? I- oh. I thought since you had everything all figured out already, I’d just go where you do and find a job there.”

Marinette flushes as well at him saying so directly that he plans to follow her wherever she decides to go. It’s something they both already understand, of course, but they rarely voice that particular thought. Have we ever said that aloud? That they’ll move to an entirely new city just to be with the other? When Marinette thinks too hard about it, it seems more grand a gesture than it feels. Really, it’s more like… Jon’s home, so if he’s in Metropolis, that’s home, too. It’s not a big deal. Yet, when he says the same thing, it feels so major. “Oh.” She says. “Well, what kind of job were you thinking of?”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know, honestly. I mean, dream job, you know what would be really cool?” Jon perks up cutely and grins at the thought. “Working in a museum. It’d be so cool just to be surrounded by all the artifacts all the time. Do research, and educate people… I don’t know. I haven’t thought too much about it, but that sounds neat, doesn’t it?”

“You’re volunteering at a museum, aren’t you?” Marinette asks.

Jon grins. “Yeah, for class. That’s what made me think of it! It’s actually a lot of fun. Though, in the meantime, I do still like writing. It’ll probably be easier for me to get a job at a newspaper or something because of my parents. That’s an option, too.”

Marinette hums. “Well, if you’re going to write, you probably don’t want to do that in French.”

Jon grimaces. “I didn’t even think about that.”

Marinette just giggles. “So that’s a reason to stay in America, I guess.”

“If you want to go home, you shouldn’t let me stop you. I can figure something out.” Jon says earnestly. “I’m fine living in Paris, I promise. My French isn’t that bad anymore, right?”

Marinette shakes her head fondly. “Of course not. You’re fluent enough to work there if you have to, and you’ll only get better if you do, but do you have a preference?” She asks. “Do you want to go back to Metropolis, or to Paris, or somewhere else?”

Jon makes a face and shrugs. “Honestly? Not really. So long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t ask if you’d be fine.” Marinette rolls her eyes. “I know you’ll be fine. I asked if you have a preference.”

Jon blushes again and shakes his head. “No, I don’t.” He says firmly. “I promise. I can see myself living… well, maybe not anywhere, but any of our three cities.” He leans in close to her touching her nose with his as he grins at her. “Or on a farm.”

Marinette kisses him quickly before pushing him away, laughing at his stunned expression. Apparently, whatever he expected from teasing her with that farm comment wasn’t that. “As beautiful as the farm is, I think I would prefer living in a city, if it’s all the same to you.”

Jon just shrugs, smiling goofily all the while. “Works for me. Maybe we can save the farm for retirement.”

There’s a thought. Since she was little, Marinette imagined so many different futures for herself. From childhood to old age. But she can truly, honestly say that not one of those daydreams involves spending her old age with her goofball husband in the American countryside. Then again, none of them involve living anywhere but Paris; she always assumed that she’ll spend her whole life there.

But thinking about it, there is an idyllic appeal to the thought. Ha, maybe. She shakes her head. More than the thought of some pastoral life on a farm, it’s the thought of Jon planning to retire together with her that brings heat to Marinette’s cheeks.

She has a more immediate future to think about, though. “What do you think about staying in New York?” She asks. “We’ve both got friends here, even considering the ones that are probably going to move away after graduation. Maybe it’s the safe option, but I’ve already dropped my life to move to a new city once already.”

Jon snickers playfully. “You mean you got it all out of your system? No desire at all to move to China next?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Marinette giggles.

“New York sounds great, though.” Jon says, more seriously. “I like it here.”

“Me too. And it doesn’t have to be permanent. If we decide we want to move somewhere else later down the line, we can always still do that. But at least we know what we’ll do right out of university.”

Jon chuckles to himself. “Just know that I’m working on Kryptonian after I get comfortable with French. If you drag us to China, you’re going to be the one doing the talking.”

Marinette smacks his arm. “I’m not going to drag you to China.” She says. “…For more than a visit, anyway. I do have family there, you know. But I want in on Kryptonian lessons. That sounds like a lot of fun. You going to have your Aunt Kara teach you?”

“That’s the plan.” Jon says “There’s some old educational stuff in the Fortress of Solitude that we’re going to use as reference, but she’ll be in charge since she already knows it. I’ll tell her you’ll be joining us when we do start that. It’ll be nice to have you to talk with, too, like we do with French. Otherwise, I’ll pretty much never use it.”

“I can’t wait.” Marinette smiles at him. “That should be exciting.”

“Definitely.”

The conversation lulls, and Marinette is happy. They finally have that conversation about where they’re going after graduation, so that’s a weight off her shoulders, and she’s happy regardless just to lean into Jon’s side and play video games quietly with him.

“Is it weird,” Jon says suddenly, after a while, “that I think of New York as home? At least as much as the farm or Metropolis. Maybe more.”

Marinette shrugs. “This is our fourth year here. Probably not. It’s home for me, too, either way.”

Jon hums, a deep vibration in his chest that Marinette can feel from where she lays against him. “I’m glad we’re staying. I didn’t even realize until now, and maybe it’s silly, but… New York feels like our place. If that makes any sort of sense. Paris and Metropolis are Ladybug and Superboy’s places, but New York is Marinette and Jon.” He hums a little more and nuzzles into Marinette’s hair. “I like Marinette and Jon.”

Marinette chuckles, feeling her cheeks flush even as she adjusts to press even closer to him. “I think I get what you mean. New York is where our new life is. Sort of like we left our hero lives behind in our old cities. If we went back, it’d be a new life in an old home. Wouldn’t be bad, and we could make our home there if we want to, but…”

“But it’s not the same.” Jon agrees. “We’re already home. We don’t need to move.”

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” She looks up at him. “I love you, Jon.”

“I love you, too.” He kisses her tenderly, with that soft, gentle crescent of a smile that says so much more in so much less than his brightest, most beaming of smiles.

“Jon.” Marinette says suddenly, jumping up from her seat. “Jon, oh my god.”

Jon perks up, shifting quickly into alert mode from the tone of her voice. “What? What is it?”

Marinette takes another moment to consider the thought that occurs to her, to verify it, and grabs his shirt. “Nothing. Nothing is happening. No big revelation, no genetically engineered siblings, no catty high-school drama, no tragedy – dude our last semester is normal!” Marinette puts a hand to her head, still reeling from the thought. “So that’s what it feels like.”

Jon releases a breathy laugh. “Don’t jinx it! Besides, I wouldn’t say nothing happened. Mercury passed in front of the sun. The astronomy professor at my school let me look through her telescope. It was pretty cool.”

“Jon, you absolute dweeb, you know that’s not what I mean.”

Jon starts cackling. “Were’d you even learn the word dweeb? I mean, you’re right, but who says that anymore?”

“Television.” Marinette says seriously. “But I’m serious here!”

“Me too.” Jon says. He wraps her up in his arms comfortably, chuckling all the while. “It’s not really the first time, is it? I mean, we don’t have that bad of a track record, all things considered.”

Marinette thinks about it more, trying to piece the timeline back together. “Huh, I guess so. It’s like good, bad, then bad – but just for me, I think? – then bad at the start but good for most of it, then good, then Sam, then whatever the hell last semester was. Is that a pattern? Second semesters have drama? Oh, god, is the drama just waiting for graduation?!”

“Marinette, I love you,” Jon’s voice is cool, grounded, sturdy, “but do not catastrophize right now. The last thing we need is bad vibes on our last semester. It’s our last semester! We’ve got it figured out! So, if some stupid call to action comes knocking at our door between now and graduation, what do we do?”

“Tell it to shut up, because we’ve got to study.” Marinette says with a small smile, pressing her head to Jon’s. “You’re right. Let’s keep this going.”

Jon chuckles softly. “To be fair, Sam was perfectly ordinary drama, and Kon had basically nothing to do with us. Not- not him being born, anyway. He’s my brother, obviously, so he- eh, you know what I mean.”

“Not our fault.” Marinette chants quietly. “Not our fault. Not our fault.”

Jon giggles and joins in, echoing the chant until it becomes a cheer and they’re both incapacitated by their giggles.

He’s right. Despite the bad parts, when Marinette examines her university career a little closer it becomes clear that, by and large, she does exactly what she set out to do. Especially as Jon and she get better at dealing with conflict, figure themselves out, and establish themselves into this life they build for themselves, even though certain things should be so much more monumental – like Conner showing up compared to what is arguably the worst time in her university life, the reveal of Jon being Superboy – it doesn’t really feel like it.

Maybe it’s because they’re both more comfortable, and because they grow enough to be equipped to handle those things, in their own way. Maybe it’s because of the strength she finds in him, that they find in each other. Maybe it’s because she’s happy in a way that she wasn’t back then that everything else seems so much more pedestrian and simpler to deal with.

It doesn’t really matter why. Marinette is just grateful that her life has gotten to this point. All because of Jon.

They’re sitting together in a park, a quiet, overcast day taking a respite from their studies, when Jon catches her off guard. “I love you, you know.” Jon says quietly, with so much feeling in his voice that Marinette thinks he must be pondering the same thing she is, how appreciative she is that he’s here. It’s a small, intimate moment between the two of them, cuddled together in the park. Jon is so good at moments like these. He always manages to leave Marinette breathless. She adamantly refuses to believe he’s just as stunned and overwhelmed as she, even when she can see it transparently on his face, because he always, always comes around with something so damn sweet and meaningful that- “It’s because of you that New York is home. I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, so thank you, Marinette, for helping me be someone I really love.” Something like that. “And for being yourself – another person that I really, really love.”

Marinette cups his face in her hands. “Don’t make me cry in public, Jon!” She whines half-heartedly.

“But I have to!” Jon pouts. “I have to remind you how much I love you while I can.” His voice takes a more somber note, something beneath the light lilt of it. “I can’t stand the thought of you not knowing exactly how special you are, so I have to.”

“You really don’t.” Marinette says too earnestly to be teasing. “I know how much you love me. I just hope you can feel how much I love you. Everything you said I could honestly say right back at you, you know.”

“Of course, I do.” Jon whispers, stealing a kiss. “But just because you know doesn’t mean I shouldn’t say it. I have to say it. I don’t- I don’t have the words. I’m still trying to figure them out. I have to get them right, and the only way to do that is to keep trying, but also… also you deserve to be told how wonderful and beautiful and smart and talented and gorgeous and breathtaking and resplendent and kind and brave and honest and clever and-”

“You going to run out of adjectives anytime soon?” Marinette squeaks, face aflame and covered with her hands.

“Not even close!” Jon chirps cheerily. His voice falls back into that lower register, the soft one for only the space between them and no further. “But I’m serious. I have to keep saying it because you deserve to hear it. It’s different; knowing, and having it reaffirmed. I just want to keep that smile on your face.”

“You are so unbearably sweet sometimes, you know that?”

Jon snickers quietly. “So you keep telling me. But you love me.”

“I do. I absolutely do.” Marinette sighs. “It’s so weird. Just three years ago I thought Adrien was the one.”

Jon’s big eyes gleam curiously. Not in an aggressive way – in fact, it’s with a gentleness somewhere close to sympathy. “Do you still love him?” He asks.

Marinette worries her lip. “In some ways, yes.” She says honestly. “But not like this. Not anymore.” She grabs Jon’s hand and kisses the back of it to reaffirm her feelings to him. He’s not so fragile as to seriously doubt her love for him at the mention of her ex, but admitting she still loves Adrien still can’t be the easiest thing in the world, even if it’s not in a romantic sense. “Adrien and I worked. Heroism was a… a dealbreaker, I guess. If it weren’t for that, I would have probably ended up marrying him. Might even be right now, in that other life.”

Jon furrows his brow at the grass for a moment, just long enough for Marinette to get concerned, then he says, “I get it. I never got as far as you did, but… I never told you why I lost my crush on Damian, did I? Wasn’t just time, though that was part of it. That was all during high school, as I was getting more and more sick of being Superboy, but Damian was growing up. He was… well, I guess he was about where we are now, back when I was still trying to wrap my head around liking guys at all.” Jon shakes his head, smiling fondly. “When we were kids, I used to tease him about me being three years younger and six years more mature. Wonder when he got so far ahead of me.” He sighs. “Anyway, despite how hot mature Damian was-”

“You can say is. I won’t be jealous.”

Jon splutters and flushes brilliantly. “…is. Despite that, it was just increasingly clear that he’ll never be anything but a hero. As I got sick of it, that whole crush thing just…” Jon makes a motion with his hands, as if tearing something apart.

Marinette nods. “Yeah, it’s sort of like that, isn’t it? In another life, it might’ve worked, but in this one, it just… can’t. I’m just grateful that we work in this life.”

“Mhmm. Me too. If it means we work, I’m glad we’re in this life. Who cares about those other lives when we’ve got this right here?”

The rest of their last semester passes by in a flash. It’s anticlimactic, all things considered, but despite jinxing it by pointing out their strange pattern of drama, nothing terrible at all happens to ruin graduation for them.

Well, there is a small scare with Conner. Hero work isn’t safe, even for Kryptonians, but some calming tea and reassurance calms Jon down quickly. It helps that he’s actually kept updated on the situation, and it’s not actually that frightening in hindsight. Both Marinette and Jon have been through far worse.

Still, it’s Conner’s first real beat down. Marinette isn’t sure if she’s inspired or horrified by how quickly, how easily, and how little he hesitates getting right back up. She has to have a few conversations with Jon about that, as the semester continues, but ultimately Conner is free to do as he likes. Marinette will worry about him, just like Jon does, but it’s clear that, at least for now, heroism is where Conner’s heart is.

She doesn’t begrudge him that. In fact, he’s ironically one of the least annoying heroes she knows, and she doesn’t love those others any less. Adrien still asks her about joining him for patrol when she’s in Paris, Alya still bugs her about Tikki and what her hero name with Wayzz is and if she’ll give her an interview as the turtle hero, temporary heroes from her time fighting Hawk Moth, original and re-chosen both, ask after their kwami and usually end up inviting her out if she decides to let them go for a run (she rarely has reason to say no to letting them see the kwami, so those invites are fairly common).

Hell, even Damian is more respectful about not trying to bring her back into hero work than her Parisian friends are. Though, to be fair, she’s only assuming he even knows. She never actually tells him; she just assumes that he of all people will have her figured out, if Superman knowing doesn’t mean her identity is common knowledge within the Justice League. It doesn’t concern her either way. She’s not Ladybug anymore, and she knows Damian isn’t stupid enough to both put the Miracle Box in danger and risk outing Jon and his family just by her proximity to them. Damian’s actually pretty cool, all things considered.

But the fact is that when Conner is in her and Jon’s apartment, he never even mentions his own hero work. He talks about the Teen Titans sometimes, but only about them being his friends. He only talks about them in situations where, minus powers, they could be any teenagers at all. He doesn’t mention missions or training or anything of the sort. Marinette can’t help but wonder if he’s doing that on purpose, thinking of Jon’s feelings about it, or if he himself doesn’t want to bring it up. Thinking about it, this little New York apartment is probably the closest thing to normal family life the kid has, and Marinette can see the look in his eyes. She won’t be surprised if the latter is the true reason.

Regardless of reason, though, he’s a welcome addition to their home. Marinette makes sure to prepare some tea for him whenever he stops by, and even once has to wrangle a whole gaggle of rowdy, superpowered teenagers as the other Titans decide to crash the party. (They’re notably less restrained about asking about Marinette and Jon’s heroic pasts, and after a while of growing quietly more and more irritated, Conner cuts in when one of his friends asks why Jon and Marinette quit heroism to berate his friend for being intrusive, saying to stop prying into his family. Marinette shares a smile with Jon, thinking how cute it is that he’s defending them, and secretly melting inside that he’s openly including her in his family, and calmly answers the question anyway, patting Conner’s head and passing him another cup of tea. He calms down, after that, though he never seems comfortable so long as they stay on the hero topic.)

But overall, nothing groundbreaking happens. Marinette and Jon go out throughout the semester, he’s ridiculously cute like always, Adrien teases her about it good-naturedly and Marinette sees through the façade of levity to the concern and firm affirmation that he’s okay with her and Jon like always, Louise and Jon geek out, leaving Kasey and Marinette to look at each other and shake their heads like always, the boys set up more shenanigans to get David and Tamias together (“Not much time left!” Jesse insists. “We got to pull out the big guns!”) and that doesn’t happen, but something catches on fire like always.

It’s fun. Eventful but not stressful. And it all culminates in what everything over the past four years is leading to. Graduation.

The days leading up to it, Marinette is legitimately considering not walking the stage at all. Her graduation and Jon’s are a day apart, so there’s not a scheduling conflict, but it is close enough that Marinette considers just prioritizing his. After all, her friends and family are mostly overseas. A lot of them won’t be able to come anyway, whereas Jon has his whole family here. It only makes sense.

Jon disagrees, obviously, but it’s not until Jagged rolls around with half her friends from Paris already packed into his car that Marinette concedes completely.

It’s worth it just to see the look on Kasey’s face when she shows up at Marinette’s apartment to get ready for graduation together and Jagged Stone is there already fussing over her. Marinette is half-certain Kasey is about to faint, and Jagged welcoming her like an overeager puppy and starting to fuss over her preparations for the ceremony doesn’t help matters.

Between Jagged, Marinette’s parents, a good majority of Marinette’s not insignificant number of friends, Kasey and Louise, Jon’s parents, grandparents, aunt, and brother, Bruce Wayne’s entire family (Marinette thinks? There’s a lot of them, and they’re all mysterious.), a smattering of other League heroes, and Jesse, Mason, David, and Tamias, their tiny apartment isn’t anywhere near big enough to handle everyone. Luckily, they have no less than five absurdly wealthy people among them, and their little afterparties are held in one of their notably larger temporary residences.

But during the graduation itself, Marinette is strangely nervous. She’s certain her old nerves will come back to bite her and she’ll trip on stage and make a fool of herself. Kasey and Louise are nowhere near her in the seats, so she’s on her own down in the middle of the stadium surrounded by her peers and their families.

She bounces her knee, unable to keep still, and then her row stands, and she follows without thinking about what she’s doing, and there are pictures taken, and the next thing she knows she’s facing out at the crowd. It’s a crowd she knows, and she smiles. This crowd doesn’t ask anything of her but to collect her diploma, have her two seconds in the spotlight, and move on for the next student. This crowd doesn’t take. And warmth surges through Marinette, and she’s proud. She’s so proud that she can cry.

I really did it. She thinks. Cameras flash, people scream, Marinette swears she can hear Jagged, and she swears his voice is amplified somehow (that’ll probably get him kicked out, if him being Jagged Stone doesn’t give him a free pass, if only the once, Marinette thinks with a giggle), and then she’s continuing on, shaking hands with some of the staff, and then she’s off the stage entirely, making her way back to her seat.

She looks at the paper in her hands – not her diploma, just a little note of a stand-in, made generally, with no names and no specifics, so that no one needs to worry about which one is handed to which student (she’ll get the real diploma after the ceremony ends) – and she feels so, so proud of herself.

Jon, when she’s released, with her true diploma in a large envelope in her hands, is the first to capture her in the biggest hug he can muster. The rest of the group surrounds them, about half of them pouting that Jon doesn’t let her go for them to hug, as Jon says in her ear, “You did it. No takebacksies.”

Marinette gets a good laugh at that.

“You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You know that?” Jon says quietly, intimately, despite their menagerie of onlookers. “You’ve changed my life for the better. I’m the person I am today because of you. So, thank you. You are beautiful, and so intelligent, and the most creative person in the world, and you’re everything you decide to be, and that still takes my breath away.”

Through the coos of all their eavesdropping friends, and Jesse’s wolf-whistling, Marinette chokes over just Jon’s name.

“I love you so, so much, Marinette. I will never take you for granted.”

Marinette forgoes the words that get caught in her throat and just kisses him instead.

When they separate from each other, and the others get their chance to hug her, Alya frowns at Jon. “Wait, that wasn’t a proposal?” She hisses, not nearly quiet enough for Marinette not to hear.

Jon just giggles impishly. “Why would you think that?”

“I- you- how often do you do that?”

“Remind the love of my life how talented and smart and awesome and resplendent she is?” Jon asks. “As often as I can. Duh.”

Marinette covers her face as her parents lean in to tell her that he’s a keeper, and to remind her to let them know as soon as he does propose.

As if she doesn’t already know that, or that she’ll do anything different.

——-=——-

Tag List: @moonystars14 @pawsitivelymiraculous @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @buticaaba @bigpicklebananatree @lozzybowe @moonlightstar64 @amayakans @theatreandcomicfreak @toodaloo-kangaroo @too0bsessedformyowngood @justcourttee​ <3

[that-house]

Hey so I hit 100 followers today!

Buckle up, this is gonna be a LOOOONG post.

I quite honestly expected it (while my ego is a little smaller than my jokes make it out to be it is definitely present), I didn’t expect it to happen so fast.

It’s not an insane milestone, plenty of people have 100 followers. A hefty portion of my followers are bigger than me. But it’s still important to me. Knowing that there’s 100 people out there who enjoy my shit makes me happy.

First and foremost the credit quite honestly has to go to ahegao George Washington. No, I’m not joking. Until I posted on r/tumblr about my desire to draw that, I had 0 followers. I jumped to like 10 overnight, which was awesome. And then those new followers helped me spread my posts and get more attention.

Secondly I’d like to shoutout @imaverysadgirl and @themeaninglessjumble. You two were my first real tumblr frens. You were the first of my followers to really interact with me. Ember, I’m super happy you’re alive to see me hit 100 followers. Jumble (I don’t know your name unless I forgot it), your art and creations are great and you deserve way more attention.

To all the rest of you, you guys are great, too. Every new follower makes me happy. I’d say I don’t deserve you all, but my colossal ego says I do. Regardless, being nemesi and getting called out for being horny on main and sending and receiving asks has made this last month or so great.

Finally, for all the shit it gets, and for all the shit it pulls, [tumblr] really is pretty dope. I got to meet you all, and it’s actively making me a better person by exposing me to groups of people I’d rarely interact with in real life.

Why does it feel like I’m saying goodbye? I’m not, don’t worry. I plan to stay, and neither death nor pain shall drive me from this hellsite. I’m just saying thanks.

Now with the thanks out of the way, I want to talk about myself a little. Just the stuff that I’ve always wanted to say and never quite gathered my thoughts and found the time to talk about.

You’re gonna get to know me so well! This is like a mini autobiography!

First off, my mental health. This is something I don’t talk about much on this blog, mostly because it doesn’t need much talking about. I’m doing pretty well, to be honest. I have a smattering of anxiety and I’m maybe a little too introverted for my own good, but I’m not suffering from depression and the only time I ever even remotely considered suicide was when I just really really didn’t want to go to French class. COVID has been great for me, since I don’t have to see people. I suppose I’m not a great person to talk to if you’re struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, seeing as I can’t personally relate, but I’m still always here for you guys if you need me. Just because I haven’t lived through your experiences doesn’t mean I can’t try to help.

Next up I want to talk about my sexuality. This one’s a bit of a mystery. For the past 16 years of my life I’ve considered myself 100% straight. But lately (let’s be honest, following the release of Spirit Blossom Thresh) I’ve been wondering if I might be bi. How many times can I joke about wanting to smash sexy boys before it’s not really a joke anymore? And if I am, a lot of things would suddenly make a lot of sense. But every time I think I have it figured out it suddenly feels like I have no clue what’s going on. Regardless, my sexuality has honestly never been a massive part of my identity (though I’m definitely not asexual, my friends can attest I’m far too horny for that). I have no clue if I’m bi and for now it’s kind of a fun little adventure!

I guess I’ll talk about school and stuff now. Believe it or not, I’m kinda smart. I’m taking a shitton of AP courses this year. But I simultaneously feel like it’s too much and not enough. I’m smart, but I’m not a great student. Compared to my dad, who graduated college with a 3.98 GPA (and his only B being in History of Canada as an American) and now has a super well-paying government STEM job that he loves, I feel like even if I work my ass off I’ll never quite measure up. And my parents have had super high expectations of me, and it’s only recently that they’ve started to accept that I might get some B’s here and there. I’m worried about all the homework this year. I’m a year ahead in Math but I don’t feel good enough at math to be taking AP calculus junior year. I’m worried I’m going to get like a C. But for the most part school is alright, too. That’s sort of the trend in my life. Everything’s alright.

Time to talk about my love life! I have no love life! I’ve been single for 17 years and probably stand no chance of changing that until at least college! Haha I’m so alone! But I can live with it. Growing up an only child with a few friends means that I’m pretty good at functioning without a ton of social interaction, and, while I’d like a partner someday, I’m not desperate. I can wait until I find someone. Pretty much my goal is not to die alone.

Onto sports maybe? I played soccer for most of my life, and was always the worst player on the select team. I was too good for the normal team and not good enough for the select team (kinda like math). Soccer was really toxic, especially when you’re the worst player on a team of high school jock drug addict boys. So I quit, and started playing frisbee! It’s a lot better. The people are nicer! But my first season never happened because of COVID and now I’m in my Junior year and haven’t played much frisbee! So I kinda suck! But I’m physically fit and that’s good enough for me! On my own time I bike and run to stay in shape.

Are you still with me? Now I’m gonna talk about my hobbies and things!

I’ve been playing video games for a long time. I kinda suck at them to be totally honest. I probably have below-average reaction time, and my parents only let me play 15 minutes a day for most of my childhood, so I have a lot less practice than most of my friends. I’m pretty slick with Swain in LoL tho.

This next part is borderline shameless self-promotion, but since the Kickstarter isn’t live yet I guess it doesn’t count. I’m making a tabletop role playing game! I’ve been working on it for the past few years. My goal is to launch the Kickstarter prior to my college applications, because that’ll look sexy as fuck to potential colleges. It’s a post-apocalyptic sci-fi game where you play as supersoldiers trying to reconquer the wastelands of Earth for humanity. I’ll do a big post on it when I launch the Kickstarter, and I guess that’ll also be a full name reveal (kinda spooky since my full name is ENTIRELY unique and one-of-a-kind. More ego boost lmao).

And finally I want to talk about my art and writing. I’ll start with my drawing, and finish off with my writing, since that’s what I’d most like to be known for on here (but that’ll never happen because my caveman brain shitposts are too funny).

So I’ve been doodling for a long time. I briefly got formal art training but sacrificing my Saturday mornings to draw what someone else wanted me to make so that I could make better stuff in the future didn’t appeal to my 8-year-old brain. I draw in the margins of worksheets. I draw on random sheets of paper. Recently my parents bought me a drawing tablet, and I’ve been trying to improve at digital art. I’d say I’m getting better, but I don’t practice nearly enough. All in all my art serves its purpose. It makes people laugh and can sometimes creep people out. It’ll never go in a museum, and I’ll never make money off of it but whatever.

And finally, my writing.

How can I talk about writing without talking about reading? I’ve likely read more books than both my parents combined, and if not, it’s close (and my mom is a prolific reader too). I have three bookshelves in my room and books on every surface. You can’t follow me for long without seeing a post ranting about my latest read. I love to read and I read incredibly fast. Reading spurred my love of English class, which in turn helped me write.

And finally, we get to writing in and of itself. I’ve been writing stories since I was a little kid. I’d like to think I’ve improved a fair bit. I’m still no novelist, but I consider myself a fairly adept short story writer.

But I suppose where my writing really stems from is my bed. Every night while I’m lying in bed, I tell myself stories until I fall asleep. I work on a story until it’s done or until I get bored of it. Along the way, in the shower, on my bike, I build the world of the story, crafting the plot. Sometimes the stories are elaborate fanfictions of my latest reads. That’s probably how they started. Often, they’re unique worlds all of their own. My current writing posts are about the City of Mammon, but my current story in my head is about some vampires who hunt other vampires in Victorian England.

And now we get into the process of writing. It’s fun! I sit myself down with an idea in my head, and use all the fancy words I picked up from my books to convey the vibes I want. I honestly wouldn’t be a great writing teacher. It’s just a skill that comes naturally to me as a result of what I’ve been doing with my free time my whole life. And it’s beautiful. And every time someone compliments my writing or reblogs it, I love writing just a little bit more.

Well I guess this is it. The 100 follower special. I wonder how many of you guys will take the time out of your day to read this. Hopefully a lot!

James (or That House) signing off for the night!

<3 thanks guys

[recurring-polynya]

I’m a huge RenRuki fan so I’m stoked to find this page of glorious work and active engagement relating to this topic I could go on about! I was wondering... during their separation, do you think Renji and Rukia slept with/dated other people? One more than the other? Just wanna know your insight since you put so much depth into their relationship. I love it. (I personally like to think that Renji had a bit of a “hoe phase” especially while he was in the 11th)

Tumblr is so great, I can’t believe people actually value my opinion on this stuff (this is absolutely one of my favorite topics). Thank you so much for your kind words, and I am ecstatic for the opportunity to pontificate on this topic.

Just to clarify, if you were asking for my opinion on the source material, and I had to “support my opinion” or “cite references”, my actual interpretation of canon is that no, they were absolutely celibate during this time. Rukia had a cute li’l crush on her vice-captain and Renji probably went on one very heterosexual date with a girl once and felt bad about it for a year.

When I am being generous and world-buildy, I like to consider the fact that shinigami are souls. They do not have bodies or hormones and so I can get behind the idea that bonds of family and friendship are far more important than sex and attraction, because those are fundamentally earthly concerns. In the hands of a thoughtful, talented, preferably ace writer, this could be an incredibly interesting setting but that is, uh, not consistent with any other aspect of Soul Society, including the fact that they sell sexy calendars of the captains, plus Kubo took the time out to canonically remind us that Soul Reapers poop and have babies.

So, instead, here is the horny Polynya headcanon version, which is what you probably wanted anyway. I’m putting it under a cut because it gets a little R-rated, and also it’s hella long, but the short answer is Renji absolutely had a slutty phase.

Some people headcanon that Rukia and Renji were actually in a romantic relationship at the time of her adoption, and if that’s your reading of it, and you want to believe that they waited for each other out of loyalty, I suppose I can get behind that.

I don’t think they were together, though. I waver from time to time about how physical their affection got in Rukongai, but I think they fell in love and never admitted it. When their last friend died, they both became absolutely terrified of losing the other, so they came to the Seireitei in order to get strong and not die. I don’t think Rukia ever wanted to be Soul Reaper, to be honest. Given the strength of her principles and her particular moral code, I do think she is a great one, in the style of “I would never want to be in a club that would have me in it.” Consistent with Oetsu’s trial in the Royal Realm, I think Renji was born (died?) to be a Soul Reaper and Rukia knew this and also that he would never go unless she went with him. She absolutely regarded getting him into Shin’ou as saving his life and getting him where he belonged.

Once they were in school, I think they had to keep their distance socially if they wanted to succeed. The Gotei runs entirely on nepotism, and Rukongai kids who don’t adapt are looking at Squad 11 or 4, best case scenario. Even if they were aware of their feelings for each other, they had to play it cool for now. Renji is a long-term planner, and I think he set his sights on pass tests -> graduate -> get Gotei position -> live happily ever after with Rukia. Rukia is not so good at long term planning, and also not so good at formal education and I think she just got depressed and salty, especially because she was never sure if he actually returned her feelings or not. I absolutely think that when she accepted the adoption, she assumed she was leaving Renji to his live his best life, and at least going somewhere she was wanted.

Even though we, the reader, are presented this story as a tragedy, in many ways, this is exactly what they had hoped for. They lived. That’s it. That’s all they ever wanted. Renji got to have his perfect job and Rukia got to live in indescribable luxury. They are both so, so happy about this and have no idea why their faces are so wet right now.

The last thing either of them wants, to be honest, is the other one pining after them. They have each accepted trudging through their life in misery because they think they have made the other happy. There’s a scene were Byakuya shows up to the Squad 6 holding cells to announce to Rukia that he has no plans to save her, and Renji looks just devastated, not just because Rukia’s gonna die, but because he thought he was sending her to happiness.

Also, on a meta level, I am middle aged, and for me, the romance of only ever being with one person is boring as hell. The idea that they would get together and lose their virginity to each other just makes me indescribably tired. Childhood-friends-to-lovers isn’t actually that interesting to me-- it is the separation itself that makes it spicy-- that they went off and had other life experiences-- and sexual experiences, and came back found that they loved this person even more now.

I headcanon Rukia as very horny and pro-sex in theory, but has is a big problem of opportunity. On one hand, I think she and Byakuya have a firm don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy, where as long as she stays out of the gossip columns, he doesn’t care what she does. On the other hand, though, I feel like secret affairs are kinda hard to manage, especially since she entered the noble network late in life. Anyway, I figure she’s had a number of casual affairs, mostly with other nobles who are invested in not getting caught, and also do not have any interest in any sort of emotional attachment. I think Rukia is absolutely bi, and mostly slept with ladies because they were more likely to be discreet, although there was probably a dude or two in there somewhere. Rukia only has two relatinship modes-- detached and ride-or-die, and she was very careful to keep everything in category 1, because she had no expectation of ever having a functional relationship that would go anywhere; no one she was actually interesting in being with would ever pass Kuchiki muster. I think she tried dating a nice boy from Squad 8 once, and everyone in Squad 13 thought it was the cutest thing they had ever seen. They went on three dates and never kissed and Rukia hated it and never did it again. She let herself have a huge crush on both Kaien and Miyako Shiba, because she was absolutely sure it could never go anywhere, and that definitely played into her devastation at their death. She may have had some Bad Decisions Sex in the wake of that, but I think for the most part, the affairs became more trouble than they were worth, and she’s been on a pretty long dry spell around the time we meet her.

That being said, I think Rukia is a lady who takes care of herself, if you get my drift. I think she has an extensive collection of erotic romance novels, a good imagination, and Kuchiki money worth of self-service sex toys. I think by the time she and Renji actually hook up, she has decades worth of pent up fantasies, and fortunately for her, he is intrigued by her ideas and would like to sign up for her newsletter, please and thank you.

Speaking of Renji, let’s talk about Renji! After Rukia left, I think Renji Made Some Plans and buckled down into a long, hard haul of Making Himself Worthy of Seeing Rukia Again. He made it through school, he went into Squad 5 with Izuru and Momo and... lost 90% of his momentum. This is exactly the scenario of the kid who busts ass through college to follow their dream, and then two years into their dream job, realizes that they are going to be formatting pivot tables in Excel for the next 15 years before they get to do anything remotely interesting. At this point, Renji is young, hot, bisexual, inked, and not very satisfied with his day job, and Thus Began the Ho Period.

Momo and Izuru hate this. They hate it so much. They have both had big crushes on Renji since school and they are right there. It wouldn’t be so bad if he would find a nice sweet partner that they like, but no, he just goes off on weeknights and comes home reeking of alcohol and covered in hickeys and ruining his career even though his job performance is actually fine. The fact is, even though he has always acted like he doesn’t know, of course he knows they like him, he’s not dumb, but Izuru and Momo are the type of people who mate for life, and Renji absolutely knows how badly he would break their hearts. He can’t even talk about it with them, all he can do it pretend like he doesn’t notice and hope they’ll realize what trash he is. He still loves Rukia and will always love Rukia and has made peace with the idea that he will likely never get to be with her-- he’s still working towards it because he must, because it would kill him to give up, but he knows that he’s only good for a fight or a fuck and not much else. Their friendship gets increasingly strained until Momo and Izuru can’t understand anything he does and he can’t stand them caring so damn much.

Anyway, this escalates in deciding to leave Nice, Respectable Squad 5 entirely, and joining the French Foreign Legion Squad 11. Squad 11 respects a man’s right to wallow, and Renji takes a swan dive to rock bottom. His only saving grace is his training with Ikkaku, which he takes absolutely seriously. Yumichika eventually takes interest in Renji, and teaches him how to take care of his hair and have standards. Yumichika and Ikkaku realize that if they can make him Functional, they can get him to do paperwork, so they help him beat the Sixth Seat and let him start hanging out with their friends.

Renji is still sleeping around at this point, but at least he’s sleeping around with a better class of people. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Polynya, has Matsumoto ever pegged Renji? (You probably weren’t actually thinking that) The answer is yes, Matsumoto has absolutely pegged Renji, and she was utterly delighted to give Rukia tips later on. Rukia does not begrudge Renji his slutty period in the least, because she knows that, given the opportunity, she probably would have been Worse, and also, he’s slept with 3/4 of the Gotei and picked her out of all of them, and also, he’s just incredible at oral.

The slutty phase tapered off when Renji had a bit of an actual relationship with Shuuhei. First of all, they are absolutely each other’s types, physically. Secondly, Shuuhei (whom I headcanon as significantly less pathetic and more bisexual than in canon) would be able to handle being in a relationship that is fun and supportive, even if it’s not destined to last. He is well aware that Renji is devoted to beating Captain Kuchiki and that he’s never going to truly be able to be in love with anyone until he gets some closure with Rukia, but that’s a long way off, and Shuuhei’s got his own baggage, who doesn’t have baggage? So they sleep together and go to the bar together and hold hands sometimes and tool around on the motorbike and wear a lot of leather and Hisagi cooks Renji food and Renji eats it and they’re pretty happy for a few years.

Eventually, around the time he gets serious about trying to make vice-captain, Renji starts to hang out with Izuru and Momo again, who have recently made vice-captain themselves, and are really happy to see that he’s gotten himself back on the wagon. He’s started thinking about Rukia a lot again, and he’s feeling a little bad because he loves Shuuhei, but he’s not in love with Shuuhei, and also, Shuuhei and Izuru have started looking at each other when they go out drinking, so Renji claims he needs to concentrate on the vice-captain’s exam and they have some nice breakup sex and then he sliiiiiides on outta there like a good bro and is very happy for his friends when they start hooking up.

Did that cover it? Boy, I had a lot of thoughts on that, huh? To summarize: They both saw other people. Renji had way more sex, just a tremendous amount of sex, but always carried a torch for Rukia (not really intentionally, I think he would have liked to be able to get over her, he just couldn’t), whereas I think she really did give up on him for a while.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk, please read my fanfiction, where I am constantly hinting at all this stuff, I swear I will eventually finish that Squad 11 story.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #435

from yesterday, don’t feel like updating the answers. :^)

When you get married what do you think you’ll put most of your focus and money into? Uhhh. I really don't know... I mean maybe doing all I can do avoid debt? That's what my parents mostly argued about, and I know financial strain can really affect a couple. I never want that burden. Who in your life causes you the most stress or negative feelings? My damn self. Have you ever had a teacher that also taught your parents? No; my parents didn't grow up here. Wait! I THINK Mom had one of my college professors? I don't recall for sure, and I definitely don't remember who it was. Are you the type of person who seeks out revenge? Nah. Are there any songs that inspire you? Certainly, such as "Life Won't Wait" by Ozzy Osbourne, "Get Up" by Shinedown, and more. How do you feel about celebrities getting involved in politics? Do you think that the celebrity world and the political world should be kept apart? Not at all; everyone has the right to share their opinion and should not feel like it's necessary to censor it. Let them be people with morals and beliefs, too. I'm totally fine with them CHOOSING to be quiet about controversial subjects, but they're more than welcome to share their thoughts on any topic. What is one pro of living where you do, and what is one con? What is a pro and a con of living where you wished you lived? I guess the only real pro (and this is horrible to be the first thought) is that we're under the radar; like, not really a target for terrorism or anything, lol. I'd get kinda nervous if I lived in, like, Washington D.C. or something. We have A LOT of cons: there is NOTHING to do, we're essentially a hub for crime, the scenery is boring and bland as fuck... I could go on for a long time. I'd love to live in many areas in North America, but I'll go with Alaska, since that would absolute RULE. A strong pro would definitely be the cold climate and the sights, but it would definitely be a con to me when that relentless dark era lasts for months on end. I need the sun (from inside anyway, ha ha) sometimes, because it being dark for what, half a year?, would really damage my happiness. What is your favorite episode of your favorite TV show? Referring to Meerkat Manor, it's actually the one where Mozart dies, I think, even though it destroyed my heart. I just think the writer portrayed it as so beautifully tragic, and the clips shown were so pretty. Does having others watch you do things make you uncomfortable? What sorts of things make you extremely uncomfortable if you are watched while doing them? Are there any things that give you confidence to do if you have an audience? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY. Do NOT watch me on the computer (especially when writing), I literally will not draw if someone's watching (inevitably besides in Art classes, I think Sara is legit the only person who's watched me draw a bit), I really don't like people watching me edit photography, I'm nooot a fan of others seeing me exercise (though I kinda have to suck that up with having a personal trainer), etc. etc. Just don't watch me do anything, lol. I don't know what actually boosts my confidence if I'm being observed. Does someone in your house speak a different language on a regular basis? No. Do you follow or care about any big sports events? Not at all. Are there any activities people normally do together that you prefer doing alone? Hm. I dunno. If you are going somewhere where you’ll have to wait for a while (i.e. a doctor’s office), do you bring something to occupy yourself? My phone, yeah. How long is your favorite song? I checked, and it's almost six minutes. Do you think you’d ever want to be “internet famous”? I'll admit I've somewhat thought about it, only because my career choices are running so dry, and I'd be able to do it alone. However, I've got noooo idea what I'd actually do, and I also don't think I could handle ridicule or anything like that for any reason. Having a spotlight on me would stress me out. Who was the main cook of your Thanksgiving meal last year? My older sister. What moment in your life have you been most scared? Probably this one occasion where Dad had to pick my sister and me up from school one day and make the 30-minute drive home. Well. He was clearly in a hellish mood because he was flying. He ran stop signs and red lights, passed people illegally... I was in the passenger's seat and absolutely convinced we were going to crash. I can barely believe we didn't. Who was the last person you slow danced with? -_- Do you prefer headphones or earbuds? Earbuds. I like how they block out external sound better, and they don't hurt my ears like headphones do. What person/people do you trust the most? My mom. Who in your life do you care about more than yourself? My parents, sisters, my nieces and nephew, Sara... A lot of people, if I'm being honest. I don't value my life as much as I should. Which wild animal would you most like to have as a pet? I am DESPERATE to rescue an opossum one day. :''''( What teacher did all the high school boys/girls have a crush on? I have no idea. Have you ever felt seriously violated? No. Do you watch American Horror Story? I adore(d) the first season; it was mine and Jason's "show." We watched most of season two as well, but I lost interest in the later half of it. I haven't really watched it since, save for the pilot episode of some season I forgot. Does your hometown have any urban legends/scary stories? Not to my knowledge. What’s the scariest nightmare you remember having? Something involving my dad that I won't speak about. Pancakes or French toast? Oh my god, French toast. That sounds delicious rn. Are there any apps you’re addicted to? Not addicted, nah. Did you have a favorite stuffed animal as a child? Yes; it was a bunny holding a multicolor polka-dotted blanket. Do you still collect stuffed animals? Hell yeah. Have you ever had eggs cooked over a campfire? No. What colors of mascara have you worn on your lashes? Just black. What font do you usually use? I mean, it depends on what I'm doing. Is it supposed to appear professional? Aesthetically pleasing? It varies too much to answer this with one font. What about font colors? Usually just black, but again, it depends on what I'm writing. Are you good at making graphics or designing layouts? Ha, no. Do you put gel or mousse in your hair? No. Sleep with just one pillow? No, I use two. I am VERY uncomfortable with just one. Ever woke up crying? Yeah, from nightmares. Do you like big dogs or small dogs better? It depends on the breed and their energy level. I don't really prefer one over the other as a general judgment. Are you going to graduate high school on time? I did. Been to the zoo lately? No, but I'd love to go. :/ Now that I'd consider myself at least a pretty decent photographer, I'd love to see what shots I could take. I LOVE photographing animals with how unpredictable they are. It's like playing the lottery; you really don't know what you're going to get, but you have the chance for seriously priceless moments. Even if we could afford the trip, though, I know I wouldn't last long whatsoever with my legs being as weak as gelatine. I know especially that there's a notable incline in the path, and I'd never make it up it. I really, really look forward to the day where I can really start feeling a difference in my body thanks to the gym. Have you ever been to Mississippi? No. What did you do for your last birthday? We went to The Cheesecake Factory. Do you like to cook? No. What is the worst thing that has happened to you in your entire life? If I'm looking at the big picture and what truly damaged my pleasure in life the most, it'd be developing depression and such intense anxiety. I've given up so much and changed so negatively because of it. Do you know when your next family reunion will be? We've never had one. My family is too spread out. What is your favorite thing to do with your significant other? I'm single, but even in a relationship, I love playing video games together. I've got multiple memories of just having a great time doing that. Where is “home” for you? Wherever Mom is. Is there an animal that creeps you out? Whale sharks, maggots and other bug larvae, centipedes, many beetles, and some other bugs. What is the name of the last band you discovered? Uhhh.. good question. I admittedly don't listen to new music a lot. I tend to stick to the stuff I know. Do you prefer group projects, or would you prefer to work alone? I would rather kick my ankle against a Razer scooter than do a group project. Have you ever been to Hooters? No. Do you have a brother? What’s his name? Yeah, Robert, but everyone calls him "Bobby." Have you ever thought that your life was so bad you wanted to give up? About a billion times. I still do sometimes. Do you have a ceiling fan located in your bedroom? Yes. Have you ever been in a lighthouse? No, but I was supposed to visit one in the fourth grade. The water was way too aggressive that day, though, so we had a change of plans and went to a closer island. Hell, it might have been the better option, because it had horses. I remember collecting seashells, too, and just watching the power of the ocean hammer at the shores. It was really pretty. Have you ever been bitten by an animal? Only playfully, like by a cat. Well wait, I think my old baby iguana may have bitten me once (he sure tried to, ha ha), but I don't remember for sure. Did it rain today? Yes. It rains pretty much every afternoon here in the late summer. What was the name of the last dog you pet? Zeke, my sister's German shepherd. He's adorable. Has your luggage ever been lost at the airport? Did you get it back? No. Do you have certain friends that you hug every time you see them? I pretty much always hug my friends when I see them. I'm a big hugger. Have you ever witnessed a tornado? No, thank the fucking Lord. Who is your favorite person to talk to when you’re down? Sara. What are you listening to right now? "Blood For Blood" by Powerwolf. Can you get over people easy? Hell no. I do NOT handle loss well AT ALL. And not just romantically. What was the last thing you carried to your room? A drink. Do you drink water that comes from your sink? Only once it's been filtered. Have you ever prank called the police? That is fucking awful. No. What’s your LEAST favorite smiley? XD looks so stupid to me I'm sorry lmao xD reigns supreme. Do you like Italian food? Yeah, more than I used to. Have you ever put red lipstick on just to make lip marks on something? No. Do you watch Shane Dawson on YouTube? Isn't his career pretty much toast now? I DID used to love his videos, though. I still occasionally watch his fiance, though, and he pops up sometimes. Regardless of everything, I still think he's funny as fuck. Would you ever spend a day to see what it’s like to be homeless? NOOOOOOO NO NO NO NO. I am TERRIFIED of living on the streets someday. I want NO idea what it's like. Is the house you’re currently living in over 50 years old? I highly doubt that. Have you ever had a yard sale? Many. What is your favorite color? Baby pink. Did you have a good day or a bad day? Today was extreeeemely dull and felt like it lasted eons. Do you know anyone that has/had cancer? I sadly know maaaaany. Have you ever read somebody else’s diary? No, that is incredibly rude. Do you enjoy going to school? I hated it from start to end. Like I have good memories, but overall, I hated school. Were you a big jump roper back in the day? OHHHH YES. I almost learned how to double-dutch, even. I could jump with two ropes, but not jump in with two. Are you a local celebrity? Definitely not. Do you eat candy daily? No. I'm already fat dude, I don't need candy. I avoid candy as best as I can. Do you get nervous with public speaking? Like you would not believe. How old were you when you got your driver's license (if you have it)? I'm 25 and still don't have it. Has someone of the opposite sex ever told you they loved you? Yes. What memory are you most afraid of losing? Meh, I don't know. A lot of what I consider my "favorite" memories I'd honestly be better off losing, probably. Who accompanied you to your first concert? My mom, younger sister, and Jason. Would you rather have tickets to see your favorite band in concert, or $100 to go shopping? TAKE ME TO THE OZZY CONCERT. What do you usually eat for breakfast? It really varies. I'd say cereal most often, probably? Do you wish you were more outgoing? Yeah. Do you know anyone who wears a hearing aid? I don't think so?

[yutacentric]

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲

↦  pairing  :  nakamoto  yuta  x  female  reader  . ↦  genre  :  angst  ,  smut  . ↦  sub  genre  :  church  boy!yuta  ,  neighbors!au  ,  fwb!au ↦  tropes  :  mutual  pining  ,  friends  with  benefits  ,  small  town  lovers  . ↦  word  count  :  5082  . ↦  warnings  :  religion  ,  smut  ,  brief  mention  of  smoking  ,  all  lowercase  .

a  /  n  :  i’m  just  here  to  drop  this  &  then  go  back  to  lurking  ,  it’s  just  been  in  my  head  so  long  that  i  need  to  let  it  out  .  this  is  unedited  &  probably  doesn’t  make  sense  ,  but  we  r  just  gonna  roll  with  it  &  pretend  that  it  does  .  i  might  just  .  Linger  after  posting  this  but  if  u’ve  an  nct  127  member  +  a  specific  au  ,  perhaps  ,  let  me  know  .  anyway  ,,,

playlist  :  every  chase  atlantic  song  ever  (  see  :  church  &  devilish  )  ,  no  right  to  love  you  by  rhys  lewis  ,  god  don’t  leave  me  by  highasakite  .

i.  he asks you of your virtue on a friday night. you’re family friends, his parents are fond of yours and when both children are home from their post - graduate lives, they take the opportunity to reconnect. he’s washed in the red glow of the neon signs in the diner window, leaned back in the ugly red booths with his arm draped up on the seat –  and though his father leads the sermon every sunday, he looks like sin. you’ve always thought that about him; there was no way someone who looked at you like that was ever holy. so much danger laid in his dark eyes, in the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his lips –  he was utter temptation and you were just a sinner.

but, when he leans across the table to ask you, “are you a virgin?” you almost choke on your drink. your parents are right behind you in their own booth, talking to his parents about the town and the changes that keep coming –  and he’s got a smooth curve to his lips while he innocently reaches for a french fry from the little black basket on the old, linoleum tables.

“how is that any of your business?” you ask, boldly swatting his hands away from the basket you ordered after he said he didn’t want anything. “or appropriate to ask?”

“we’re friends, aren’t we?”

but you send him a skeptical look, because no –  you are not friends with yuta, or the nakamotos. your parents are. in your entire life, he’s only ever held a genuine conversation with you when forced. awkward dinner parties, after your high school graduation parties, that one thanksgiving they were invited over because your extended family bailed –  he’s barely more than an acquaintance. yuta’s a familiar face in the crowd, a vague figure you might recognize if he’s dressed a certain way, the laugh you think you recognize when you’re halfway across the country at school. you might’ve spent years pining over the boy down the street who looked like he himself was an angel, but never once has he ever looked your way on his own volition.

“is that what you call this?” you muse, picking up a french fry. “friendship?”

“listen, i’m just curious.” despite him loudly stating about how unhungry he is, he takes another one of your fries. “i was thinking about what i did to you behind the church last time we were both in town.”

his words are innocent, but his intents are devilish. despite your best efforts, you feel your cheeks heating up at the mention of spring break –  of his head underneath your dress as he spoke invocations between your thighs. he had a way with word , he always had and he had talked his way up your dress. it was just a hand on your thigh in the pews, then a ghost of kiss behind your ear when leading you out the church, then the filthy prayers that he executed with his tongue. he had drawn god’s name from your mouth while holding you against the church, held your legs apart as you cried out his name on holy ground.

he was thinking about it, but you thought of it often –  probably more than he did.

“you stopped me before we could go any further, i thought you just weren’t interested.” the corner of his lips lifted. “but then, i thought to myself, is she a virgin? is that why she stopped me?”

you chewed on your food slowly, bravely holding his gaze as the neon lights buzzed in the background. “do you think i’m a virgin?” you asked. “it’s been months since you ate me out behind your dad’s church and you’re only asking now? how long have you been thinking about me?”

unexpectedly, you match the cockiness that he wears so well. time has changed you; you’re no longer the damsel, the final girl –  purity wrapped in cream white, ring of abstinence around your finger as you keep your head bowed in submission. you’ve found freedom in the things your parents have warned you stay away from –  in men like yuta, who hold onto god while shaking hands with the devil. you wouldn’t let yourself be hurt anymore, you refused to continue to be the church girl who let everyone walk all over him. next time, you’d hurt them instead of letting yourself get hurt – you’d leave before you could get left.

you wonder if time’s changed him. unlike you, and some of the other people in your class, he didn’t opt for higher education after high school. his instagram is mostly inactive, but you’ve kept up with his temporary stories, his treks through europe and his stays in asia. everywhere he goes he looks like he belongs. there’s always someone on his arm or by his side –  he’s got an endless supply of charm that’s helped him on his way, he’s always been that way.

“a long time, angel,” he says.

and there it is –  the way he looks at you while bathed in the color of lust and sin. he is temptation and you are eve, he beckons you to take a bite, and who are you to say no? it’s barely an hour before you find yourself on top of him in the backseat of his old car with his hands in your hair and his lips on your collarbones. the windows are fogged up by the heavy breaths that fall from your lips, unholy sounds filling up the empty spaces around you.

how can something so blasphemous sound so sanctifying? your name on his tongue as he fills you up, the moans drawn from the back of his throat while his hands leave your locks to roam around your body. his palms are hot against your sweat covered skin and he leaves a trail in his wake –  like he’s drawing out a map with his fingertips, leaving his fingerprints on you. you could listen to him all day, listen to him talk about how tight you are, about how good you’re treating him, about how much he’s wanted you.

he is the prophet who’s made you a believer, hands between your legs as your core tightens –  oh, how he encourages you, how his lips meet yours as he fucks you while your hips buck. stars fill your vision while he fulfills his fantasy on you, thrusting up into you and gripping your hips. he calls your name just as he finishes, his strokes slowing to a stop as he pushes your hair out of your face.

a gentle kiss on both your temples, you know then how hallowed he is.

ii. he calls you the next morning from his kitchen. his parents are still asleep when his eyes open and he swears he can still smell your perfume on his skin. he’s nothing short of sacrilegious, but you’ve always been holy to him. there’s something about the way you smile when you receive good news that makes his heart flutter, and he loves the way you look over your shoulder whenever someone calls your name. for so long, he’s watched you become strong and independent while keeping his hands to himself.

divine corruptor, but he never wanted to taint you.

because he can still remember you moving in down the block –  another girl he’ll have to welcome into bible study, another kid he’ll have to pretend to like because his parents are too chatty. but suddenly he’s thirteen and watching you stop a family dinner to bandage the boy across the street. the sunset hits you just right, lights up your face as you make the little boy promise to be more careful. you probably don’t remember how you looked at him as you walked back up the path to his home, but he does. thirteen and looking to a god who’s never loved him, wondering if love is real after all.

but, then he’s seventeen and you won’t meet his eyes at thanksgiving. you won’t eat the stuffing he brought, and he wonders if he said something wrong. later, his parents tell him that your entire extended family bailed and that the cousins you missed so much hadn’t so much as called you. it wasn’t his stuffing that had you down, it was the absence of someone who promised you they’d be there. he left you a hand turkey on the window of your bedroom and tickets to the movie you spoke to your dad about that night –  he had to bribe his ex - girlfriend that worked there.

and still, you never looked at him. you ignored him in the halls, chose the loudest kid in class to partner with instead of him, went to prom with one of his friends instead of even asking him. he had spent his entire teenage life watching after you with the stars in his eyes while you grew and moved on without him. even after high school, one day you were still at home, the next day your parents were at sunday service telling him about how you went to some hot shot college across the country. they’re so proud of you, but he shares the same pain with them –  that you all but left everyone behind. he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

but years pass and suddenly you’re back in his church at the same time as him. you look as good as you always have, sundress appropriately chosen for service with your smile equipped as always –  and even though it’s been years, his heart skips a beat. he’s distracted from the conversation his father’s pulled him into and he’s looking at you. you hug old neighbors and catch up with friends who never left, you ignore him as you always have until he sits next to you and he’s instantly aware of the shift in your demeanor. your posture’s a bit different and you hold your head up a little higher than usual. your hand laces with his and you’re asking him to help you get some air after he teases you.

“what do you want me to do, angel?” he asks you when you’re on the front steps of the church.

it’s you that initiates the kiss, who cups his cheeks and pulls him into you like you’ve been waiting to do it. he’s breathless for the entire kiss and he almost loses himself when you ask him rather what he wants do instead. you tasted sacred, and the noises you made as your legs shook around his head were imprinted into his mind until you came home again. that day, you had used him to get you off and left before he could get inside of you. you had walked away and left nothing but a fantasy in his head and he had spent months with his hand wrapped around himself thinking of what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stopped him.

that yellow dress would still be bunched around your waist, he’d hold it as he watched himself disappear inside of you. your panties would be all but forgotten on the ground while he pushed you against the side of the church, he would listen to your moans, hear his name from your lips, taste all of you for the rest of the day. he always thought of you, even in another country with another girl in his arms. you deserved better than his dirty thoughts, though, he knew that. you were worth so much more than just the lust you gave him a taste of, but you came home again and you looked wicked.

it isn’t the way he wanted it to happen, but it isn’t as if it’d happen any other way. girls like you don’t end up with boys like him –  that’s a truth he accepted a long time ago. but still, you answer the phone groggily and his lips spread into a smile. he listens to you complain about the time and about how he almost got you caught sneaking in last night –  because you’re an adult , but your parents still treat you like a teenager.  it’s such a mundane moment, watching the sun rise while listening to your giggles on the phone, but he knows he’ll remember it forever.

iii. you’re wrapped up in his arms for the rest of summer. you spend nights with his hands between your legs while your mouth is wrapped around his cock. mornings are rare, but when they arrive they often come with his body against yours – skin to skin while the sunlight peeks through the curtains. it’s often you find yourself at the church with your parents, shaking hands with his father before disappearing for the service to rendezvous with the best adventure you’ve ever had in your life.

he forces you to new heights, leaves your legs shaking and you gasping for air from pleasure you never knew you could feel. he is dangerous – taking you from behind as he bends you over the top balcony of the church after service, leaving a mark on your neck that wasn’t there when the day started, pulling you away from old friends who definitely notice the way your cheeks get tinted when you meet eyes with him. if this was supposed to be a secret, it was a poorly hidden one – but you didn’t mind.

you started counting the days before you had to leave. one more year, and you would come home. you didn’t want to come home originally – you returning for the summer was just supposed to be a pit stop on your journey around the world. but he had made you stay. he had found his way into a heart you swore would always be shielded, he had held your hand while on the top of the car and asked you to stay. you’re sure that, “we should keep doing this.” didn’t really officially count as an invitation, but you had taken it as one anyway.

why hadn’t you done it sooner? why had you always been so scared of the pastor’s son? if he made you feel like this now, could he have done it sooner? would high school have been different if you chose him instead of his friend, who used you on prom night and never spoke to you again? would you have chosen a school closer to home if you knew that he could make you forget all your troubles? would you have gathered the courage to meet his eyes if you knew how angelic he looked when he fell asleep with an arm wrapped around you?

“what are you doing?” he mumbles. he shakes you from your thoughts as you readjust your position. your head lays on his chest and you look up at him as the sheets fall around your waists, your left hand is intertwined with his right, the way his thumb brushes over yours makes your stomach erupt with softness.

“i’m just thinking,” you reply quietly. “i’ve known you for more than half my life, but never like this.”

“like what?” he meets your eyes in the growing darkness of his room. there’s happiness in the liminal spaces like this, you’ve found, in the quiet afterglow of pleasure is when you’re at your highest. “naked?” he teases you. “intimately?”

your own smile appears on your lips widely, and you sit up to wrap the sheets around your chest. “yeah,” you nod. “and, you know, more than just – yuta my neighbor, yuta the pastor’s son, yuta who dated all the girls in my eighth grade math class.”

he sits up too, leaning against his headboard after running a hand through his hair. “is that what you thought about me?”

you thought so much more of him than he’d know. he was out of your league, and he wouldn’t ever be interested in someone like you – that much, you were always so sure of. he never seemed interested when he came over, he always seemed eager to leave; you never even spoke past formalities. you thought he was the most interesting kid in your entire town of three hundred, but you were just a nobody. he was divinity and you were nothing but a follower. he was going to go off and do something so great with his life, you’re in a useless major with a useless life plan.

“no.” you shake your head this time. “i thought you were holy.”

because you couldn’t ever forget how he looked sitting in the front pew like a marble statue. he was handsome, and posed against the stained glass windows he looked like one of the paintings hung up on the halls of the church. you’ve never forgotten how beautiful somberness looked on him, how even when there were tears in his eyes, he still looked like he could end wars with a single glance. it was an odd situation, seeing him behind the school on graduation day with a cigarette between his fingers pretending not to cry. you would’ve said goodbye to him then if you had had the courage, but you had spun around and left without even saying hello – something you had grown all but used to.

he snorts in response to you, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe you. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“but, i do.” you scoot over until you’re close enough to straddle him, the sheets fall from around you as you climb on top of him. “i swear it on everything i have, yuta, you’re holy.”

he looks like he wants to argue, to fight against the title you’ve given him but instead, he pulls you in for a kiss. it’s slow and deep, almost torturing the way he kisses you like it’ll be the last time. he always kisses you like this, before he makes you cum, when he says goodbye, when he pulls you out of the crowd and into his arms. you don’t know why, but you won’t ask him to stop.

he kisses you and you break away to kiss his jaw, his neck, his chest – you kiss him until your mouth is wrapped around him again. his hands are always in your hair like this, his eyes are always half shut when you swipe your tongue over the head of his member, he always looks you in the eye when you dare to look up. he’s so holy, you wished he saw it too.

iv. you break his heart on a wednesday evening. three months of this and suddenly he’s got you in the back of his car again and he accidentally tells you “i love you”.

it’s in the heat of the moment, he confesses immediately after, but he can’t lie. he loves you, and he’s never loved anyone else like this before. you are everything to him. he looks at you and still loses his breath, he still gets giddy when he sees your contact light up his phone, he can’t go to bed without making sure you know he’s thinking of you. he thinks you love him too, because this isn’t just friendship. what you guys have going on is so much more.

it stopped being about the sex a bit ago, when you fell asleep in his arms and he held you until you woke up. it stopped being about the sex when he knew what to get you when you got bad news without you telling him. it stopped being about the sex when no other girl in the world compared to you, when you asked him if he’d visit you over the school year and he promised to. he passed friendship the minute he learned about your weird habit of leaving flowers on the windowsill of old mrs. buchannan because she liked the color. he knew he loved you when he had to pause the movie because you cried over the death of a minor animal character. he thought you loved him when you called him holy.

but he tells you he loves you and he can hear the rose gold glass shatter.

“hey,” he says your name as you fix your skirt in silence. “hey, come on, say something.”

“you don’t mean that.” your response comes quietly.

“i don’t mean what?” he pulls his pants up, fixes the buttons of his shirt. “that i love you?”

“you don’t love me.” you open the car door and step out. “you can’t.”

he’s taken aback by your comment, very briefly fixing his hair before stepping out of his side and watching you briskly walk away in the empty parking lot of the closed down k-mart. “what is that supposed to mean?”

you turn around, jacket wrapped around your arms as you look everywhere but at him. “i mean what i said. you can’t love me, yuta, i’m not someone you’re supposed to love.”

“then who am i supposed to love?” he takes steps around the car toward you. “if not you, then who?”

“anybody but me,” you insist, and he can’t understand why you’re pushing him away now. he can’t understand. “you’re supposed to love someone who’ll give you adventure and a lifetime of happiness. i’m just me – i’m– i’ll only leave. break your heart.”

“is there something i’m missing here?” he stands his ground even though you stray further away, one step at a time. “when was this decided – that you’d just leave and break my heart?”

and he’s so desperate to keep you, to hold onto you and keep you in his life. he doesn’t want this, you still taking steps back away from him like he’s the demon he’s always been sure he is. you’re enveloped in the dim lights of the parking lot, the streetlights cast a halo over you as you teeter near the edge of darkness – and still, he’d fall to his knees in worship for you if it meant you’d stay.

“you’re not supposed to love me, yuta, please,” your voice breaks, and it hits him so hard he almost stumbles back. “i’m sorry.”

you leave him in the half lit parking lot, but you don’t turn around to see him sitting down on the pavement with his head in his hands. what a constant theme in his life, to find so much happiness and see it walk out of his life. he thought you’d be the one that stayed, but he can see now how unfair it is to have placed all his expectations on your shoulders. you aren’t atlas, you aren’t made to carry the weight of his faults and his world, that’s his job, that’s his duty. he shouldn’t have expected you to love him the way he loves you, he shouldn’t have expected anything other than another girl who wanted to burn her hand in the lust.

it’s okay, he thinks, it’ll be okay. he’ll be okay, he always is. but he picks himself up hours after you left and climbs into a car that still smells like the perfume you sprayed earlier when you complained about the smell of cigarettes and that pine scent you hated. he drives to the church with his windows down, speeding through the empty streets so fast he can barely breathe though the wind. he uses the back entrance of the church with tears in his eyes and falls into his place in the first pew, letting the darkness wrap around him as he leans forward and cries.

yuta doesn’t pray, but he prays for you anyway.

v. you leave tomorrow, and your parents open the door to let in the nakamotos. he isn’t with his parents, and you don’t know if you’re more relieved or disappointed. because it’s been two weeks since he said he loves you, and it’s been two weeks since you saw a future in which he left you because you couldn’t make him happy.

what was it? your own insecurities, or the constant pattern that everyone that you fell in love seemed to leave? you could dissect it all. the fact that he was out of your league, that you had spent half your life yearning over him and waiting for him to look at you as someone other than the daughter of his parents’ friends. every girl he had ever dated was prettier, or more adventurous, or better than you in one way or another. every friend he had had more substance than you would ever muster. every story he told you reminded you that you didn’t fit into his life.

and then the second point, that you had fallen in love so many times just to be left alone in the cold. you had found yourself lost in the woods so many times because of the boys you chose to love. because of that, you had mapped the forest on your own, built your own shelter, and kept yourself warm with your own fire. it was foolish of you to let the fire die out and to venture out toward his flame, it was incredibly stupid of you to fall in love with him when you had promised yourself that you’d leave before you could get left.

but dinner is so empty without him, and he’s everywhere. he haunts you in everything you do, you can see him in everyone you meet. because the truth is, the hoodie he left still smells like him even if it’s just been sitting on your desk chair and whenever you see something funny the first person you think of his him. you find him in the sunsets and the shadows in your room, you touch him in your dreams and hold him so tightly you wake up in tears. he has burrowed his way into your heart and the joke’s on you – you ended up hurt in the long run anyway.

you say goodnight to his parents as they leave – his mom hugs you extra tight and tells you it’s from yuta. 

“he’ll miss you, sweetheart,” she says as she pulls away.

that haunts you for the rest of the night. you can’t sleep, you can’t form a coherent thought, and you’re walking out of the front door fiercely at two in the morning without caring about the consequences. you walk across the lawns to his house, you find his room on the ground floor and knock on the window – quietly, three times. seconds feel like hours as you wait, and for a second, you think he’s gone, but just as you’re about to sprint back home, his curtains pull apart and you see his face.

you’re helpless as the moonlight hits his face, lighting up his features. heaven lost an angel and he’s right in front of you. you’ll never understand why he thinks so lowly of himself, why he can’t see the wings that sprout from his back and the halo that hangs over his head. you can remember a night spent with him, listening to him tell you about his stories and his adventures. how highly he spoke of others, how he didn’t speak of himself, how he only mentioned his mistakes and his flaws. you had told him how holy he was, he had denied it until his hips were between your legs and you forgot all about it. 

he slides his window open, pushing the screen aside and leaning out. he looks like a masterpiece, painted and carved by god himself – the big man that you knew he didn’t really believe in. if god was real, he gifted mankind yuta.

“i leave tomorrow,” you say.

he nods slowly. “i know.”

“i came to say goodbye.”

“okay.” he looks you in the eye. “goodbye.”

“bye.”

not all stories have a happy ending, you know. you’re so sure that you won’t have one with him, you’re so sure that if you tell him how much you love him it’ll end apocalyptically – but your heart hurts so much you can’t breathe. you can’t move your feet from its spot in the ground, you can’t leave the way your mind is telling you to.

“please give me time,” you mumble – you don’t even know what you’re really saying. the words are coming out faster than you can stop them. “please wait for me. i just need a little time.”

“for what? what in the world could you possibly need time for?” he asks, stoic features finally moving; they shift into a frown, a sarcastic laugh from his lips.

“i need time to love you the way you deserve to be loved. because i do, i do love you. i love you.” it’s relieving to say, you can almost breathe again but the way he looks at you – for the first time that summer, he doesn’t look at you like you’ve gifted him the sun. he looks at you like you’ve stolen the light, like you’re a bringer of darkness. “i just – i can’t.”

“and i can’t wait for you.” he shakes his head. “i can’t do it.”

“please,” you beg. you take a step toward his window as he takes a step back into his room. “please.”

“i can’t.”

tears blur your vision and you don’t want to cry, you don’t want him to see you sob over him. but you can’t hold them back, they fall onto your cheeks as he pulls back the screen on his window – a barrier that prevents you from climbing in familiarly. 

“i love you,” he says to you. “i meant it when i said it, i mean it now. but you need time to love me and i need time to unlove you.” you’ve never seen him look so sad before, but he closes his window, then his curtains.

rightfully, he cuts you out of his life and leaves you in the darkness. you walk back home in tears, you land on your front steps in tears. some stories just don’t have happy endings, some have lessons – yours: that in trying to get hurt by another person, you ended up the most hurt you’d ever been. 

oedipus, by trying to escape your fate, you’ve walked headfirst into it.

[wetwellie]

Your Name AU

(because i’ve seen this movie a bajillion times and it makes me feel things and i am FEELING THINGS about zimbits rn) (It probably won’t work, but i’m gonna make it work)

 Bitty is a guy who is trying to peacefully spend his last summer before heading off to college in peace. 

He spends his days working his part time job at his Aunt’s produce stand. 

and Baking

and playing club hockey twice a week

Fairly peaceful

and...boring as hell

Until the dreams start

Jack has just started his third year at Samwell university

he’s still broken

still anxious

still the “golden boy” --even if he doesn’t feel like hes polished and shining

but he’s making do

and making friends

just a year or two left until

until what?

graduation? getting signed? 

wasting away? 

Jack doesn’t know. But he’s resigned to focus on hockey and let the rest of the world pass him by

Until the dreams start

Jack wakes up and it’s too hot

He shifts to get out of bed and finds that the covers he is tearing away from his body

are not his

or Shitty’s

or any of his roommates’

also. uh

those skinny legs and short shorts are not his

his hands look different too

and his face feels different

and the voice that calls to him from downstairs is not one he knows

huh

well

weird dream

hope it’s over soon

Bitty goes downstairs to eat the next day

His parents are both fairly silent

“I see you got over whatever mood you were in yesterday, young man”

“mood?”

“it doesn’t matter.”

That’s all he gets out of them

When he drives to the produce stand his cousins run up to him smiling

“I see that you actually remembered how to drive that thing”

“What?” says Bitty

“yesterday you were all over the place. almost knocked over the stand. if you were anyone else I’d think you were drunk”

“Aunt Judy figures you might have been possessed” the other cousin says

“With a fit of stupidity”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about” Bitty says

“It doesn’t matter. Just don’t ‘get lost’ or forget ‘how to drive stick’ again, Dicky” she says using finger quotes

Later in the day, Suzanne asks Bitty if he’s really feeling ok. 

She was really worried about yesterday’s behavior

Bitty replies that , despite evidence on the contrary, he feels normal

They finish up some jars of jam and Bitty returns to his room for the night

There is where he finds it

Tucked under his pillow there is a note in scratchy handwriting

“Who are you?”

Bitty wakes up cold, in a bed that is too big for him

an alarm he doesn’t remember setting, or ever having, is blaring next to him

he looks to see the time

4:30 am

oh. 

hell no

bitty gets up to unplug the dream alarm clock, and returns to sleep

Bitty wakes up 6 hours later with another man coming into bed with him

This man is naked

and moustached

one of those dreams? huh

never would he dream about this kind of guy though

because this guy doesn’t crawl into bed, like he thought

he wraps bitty in a burrito made out of comforters and yanks him onto the floor

“I know you needed to a break, but let the coaches know before you sleep through morning practice like that”

“practice?”

“yeah. and you’re lucky that I’m waking you up in time to go to your 11am.” 

“but it’s summer”

naked moustache man just looks at him and rolls his eyes

“we’ll grab lunch after class”

“Wait!”

“What”

“...where is my class?”

Jack wakes up the next day 

and is dragged to the doctor to test for a possible concussion

“the things you were saying and doing yesterday were crazy”

“you skipped morning practice”

“After class you threw down your notes and said you’d never major in History”

“You baked seven as an apology for skipping morning practice”

“And then you dropped into fetal position in afternoon practice when Ollie was about to check you”

“And you took, i don’t know, 7000 selfies of yourself and called yourself handsome”

“have you ever taken a selfie before in your life?”

jack just shakes his head

“yeah. like i said you’re getting checked for a concussion”

Did I hit my head? , Jack asks

“no. but it can’t be” Shitty pauses “It wouldn’t be your other thing would it?”

I don’t think so he says. 

Jack has never really had memory problems. and his anxiety and panic never particularly affected him in the way described

faintly, he recalls a young boy at one of his games right before the draft, voice broken as he says “Jack, don’t you remember me?”

it leaves his mind as quickly as it entered

because he had bigger problems to figure out

namely how he had new entries on the journal on his phone

it was a summary of all of the things that “Jack” did the previous day

“Thanks for a long day of being a Big Shot on campus, handsome!”

signed Eric

Eric?? 

Who the hell is Eric? 

it happens again 

Jack spends a day as bitty

and Bitty spends a day as Jack

and they wake up not remembering too much about what happens

the only thing that cements that it’s not just a weird dream is that

well...real life consequences

Jack becomes a lot more...spinny and less up for contact when he plays hockey

and ends up enjoying time with his teammates a lot more

and has a huge country dialect now

and one time someone came up to him speaking french and jack had no idea what was going on???

and he smiles sometimes??? 

and at the end of the day he’s almost always on his phone typing away

Bitty is able to kick ass into gear with hockey

but can’t bake worth shit

honestly, suzanne hasn’t seen anything of that quality since bitty was seven

AND he had to check a recipe

also, he’s started to bike to work

driving stick is impossible

he’s very serious on some days

he spends his evenings watching history documentaries and writing in a journal

Well. It seems like this is just gonna be life for a while, they both figure

best set up some rules

Bitty, as Jack, is NOT ALLOWED TO DITCH CLASSES

no use of the word y’all

no beyonce

no short shorts

don’t drop like a brick when someone comes to check you

seriously Eric it’s fine 

Eric it’s my body that would get hurt don’t worry

also please don’t drink or use drugs in my body

it’s a long story but again

it’s my body

Jack-as-Bitty is asked to be polite to his friends and customers

and please never bake anything ever

don’t leave the house dressed like some weird clothing outlet exploded

if you yell at my teammates i swear to god, mr. zimmermann. 

don’t disrespect senor bun

or anyone

stop frowning so much, even Coach has asked me about it and i don’t know what to say

don’t watch stuff on my netflix account. your history documentaries are messing up my recommendations

Despite the rules

They find ways to keep bothering each other

But also trying to make each other better

As captains of each others teams, both teams are able to benefit from their guidance

Bitty’s team gets a lot stronger technically

but kind of hate how much of a hardass Bitty is 3 times a week

The SMH is more in synch with each other than ever

and Bitty is able to help out a lot more

But Jack ends up having to put a lot of money in the sin bin for 

‘acting off’

Jack is very upset to find a picture of himself in the swallow, sitting on the roof of the Haus shirtless and wearing short shorts chilling

like

what the fuck Eric 

But they get a little routine down, and nothing changes except for minor nuisances

so whatever 

It all works good until one day, while Jack and Suzanne are bonding over making jam, Suzanne looks Jack right in the eyes and says 

“oh...you’re not my dicky. you’re dreaming aren’t you?”

Jack snaps awake in his bed

not Eric’s bed. His bed

Huh. weird. 

He goes to check his phone and of course, there is a long journal entry left over from the day he didn’t get

It’s all mostly ok until he gets to the end

“It looks like your first big hockey game is tomorrow night! Be sure to have fun. Enjoy it!”

“There’s a comet tonight for me. I’ll take lots of pictures so that you can see it next time we ...do whatever we do”

 Jack and the SMH win the game. and he actually tries to have fun. but the only person he wants to celebrate with is

well

he’s in georgia

bUT

Jack has a phone

He dials bitty’s cellphone number that has been saved in his contact

his heart is beating quite fast. 

and then he hears 

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service”

 Jack stops switching after that

He should be relieved. overjoyed

but he’s not

he doesn’t miss the humidity

or the dirt roads

or the bugs

but he does miss something

and he’s forgetting all about it

so he tries searching online for the town

the town he can’t remember the name of

he doesn’t want to forget, so he starts drawing sketches of what he remembers

they’re not bad

pretty darn good, even

Not as good as Lardo’s, but she’s still abroad

He tries to call Eric’s number a couple more times. He gets the same results

 Jack can’t take it anymore

During the winter break, Jack flies down to Georgia for a weekend, rents a car, and drives himself in the general area he remembers the town

he stops locals and shows them sketches

“is there any town nearby that looks like this?”

they all respond in the negative

he does this for hours

the sun is starting to set when he resigns to give up

he pulls into a diner in the town he’s in, orders, and looks at his sketches again

maybe it’s possible that the town isn’t...even real?

it really could have just been his dreams

that is what he thinks when the server returns with some water

“Hey. that’s a pretty good picture of Godfrey”

 “Godfrey?”

“Yeah. I grew up there.” he says looking a bit sad

“Can you tell me how to get there?” 

The server pauses and gives Jack a mourned, but puzzled look “ it was about a 15 minute drive from here but-” 

“it was?”

“you didn’t hear about what happened?”

Jack shakes his head. 

“If you don’t mind,I’ll take you to it after you finish your dinner”

It’s all gone. 

Oh God. 

Everything from the small ice cream shop to the old creek where Bitty’s cousins would hang around

It’s all rubble

and mounds of dirt

Literal miles

Jack can’t breathe

he can’t

breathe

just breathe

just

breat--

[boopypastaissalty]

We Are Not Broken

The Session

Dr. Flemmings cleared his throat. “Now that all of you are here, let’s begin. The first thing I want you all to do is tell everyone what happened to you. It’s okay that you are here and you all have had similar experiences. This is a LGBTQ+ safe zone, so don’t be afraid. Who wants to start?”

Everyone looked at each other, none wanting to go first. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Logan took a deep breath, “I was kidnapped and tortured because of my gender and sexuality, along with Roman and Remus,” the twins both flinched at the statement, remembering all too well what had happened and what they had all been through together, “I have scars all over my body from the various weapons and beatings. It was hell, we were all malnourished and suffering, and I remember having to watch our kidnappers beat the everloving, pardon my language, f*ck out of Roman and Remus, I don’t remember the times I was beaten all too well, but it was all because some people thought not being cishet was a crime, found the twins and then found me.”

Dr. Flemmings nodded, “Use whatever language you need to, Logan”

“Does Spanish count?” Roman piped up, both twins were multilingual, both parents being native spanish speakers, their father from Spain and their mother from Mexico, in high school Roman took French and Remus took German and begrudgingly, at their parents request, taught each other and had become proficient in both languages. Sometimes the twins talked to each other in a strange mix of English, Spanish, French, and German, something they called Enspanchan.

“Preferably a language we all can understand, Roman”

Roman slumped a little, “Ay, lo siento” he said under his breath.

“Logan, do you have anything else to say?” Dr. Flemmings asked.

Logan shook his head and fidgeted with his hands, he had never been good at processing strong emotions, he usually distracted himself by researching and educating himself on random topics, incorporating them into his Sign Language lectures at the school he worked at.

“Uh well, I guess it’s my turn,” Patton said, interrupting Logan’s train of thought, “I was taking a walk, and some guy noticed the strap to my binder and commented on it. I didn’t think much of it, I ignored him and kept walking, but then he grabbed me and started calling me… horrible things and he dragged me into the nearby woods and…” Patton took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, “He took off all my clothes and destroyed my binder. He told me I’d be beautiful if I didn’t try so hard to be a man. He called me an ‘exotic beauty’ and kept asking me what kind of asian I am. And then he started touching me and…” Patton started full fledged crying, not wanting to say it. He got quieter and almost whispered, “He r*ped me… And now I’m pregnant.”

Everyone was silent for a few long seconds, Virgil finally broke the silence “That’s… horrible. What are you going to do with the baby? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Patton took another deep breath and said “I’m probably going to put them up for adoption. Someone out there probably really wants a baby and can’t have one themselves. I’m not saying everyone should do that, though, I mean everyone’s different.”

Dr. Flemmings took note of how much Patton was crying, “You feel broken, don’t you?”

“I feel broken, violated, I wish time would just stop for at least a little while. I wish I could turn back the clock to last month and tell myself to not go on a walk that day, but I know I can’t. I feel like I’m not trans enough, like maybe I’m not actually a man.”

Virgil looked at Patton, “Bullsh*t. You’re trans enough. You are just as manly as you need to be. You’re f*cking valid.” He clapped for emphasis. This was unusual behavior for him, as he didn’t like to have attention drawn to himself, but he hated it when other trans people didn’t feel valid, mainly because he knew how it felt.

“Well, kiddo, I don’t know about all that, just look at me”

“You. Are. A. Man. And. That’s. What. Matters.”

“Fine, you win”

During this exchange, Janus had been writing out their story and held up their hand in a sort of “Stop dooting your horns, you middle school band class” gesture. Everyone looked at them, they just seemed to have that presence, the type that made people shut up and pay attention without really trying. Janus passed around the notepad, which said: After a concert, a lady came up to me, nothing new there, and was haggling me about being nonbinary and how I’m just a “broken man” and then all of a sudden, I don’t really remember this well, I felt something swipe across my throat and there was a strange warm liquid coming from my neck and then it started to hurt. The next thing I knew, there was yelling and I was on the ground with my friend Ethan, he’s the drummer, Hel, pressing down on my neck. Lola, our bassit, Truth, was calling 911. I think I passed out, and when I woke up in the hospital, I was very confused. I was on so many painkillers that I was basically high out of my mind and the most important thing to me at that moment, for some reason, was chocolate chip cookies. I specifically remember being distraught that no one would bring me cookies because I couldn’t communicate that I wanted some. Anyways, that’s not important. This person probably ended my career, the one thing I actually wanted to do with my life, and I don’t know what to do about it. I might never be able to talk, let alone perform, ever again. Also some dumb*ss took a video of it and put it on YouTube and so the whole world knew before I had even arrived at the hospital.

Once everyone had read what was on the notepad, they all stared at Janus. They looked down at their legs. After a moment, Patton got up and walked over to Janus and touched their shoulder. “What else do you like to do?” he asked.

Janus shrugged.

Virgil suddenly blurted out, remembering the chaos after that concert a few weeks ago, “Wait someone put that on YouTube? How has that not been taken down?”

Janus shrugged, not knowing why either, and pulled out their phone. They found the video and played it, looking away. Patton and Virgil looked away from the video, while Logan and the twins watched, all three feeling bad that they couldn’t seem to pull away from the chaos happening on screen, like some sort of morbid scene in a TV show.

When the video finished, Logan, Roman, and Remus were in stunned silence while Janus fumbled to keep the next video from playing, the “What’s in your pants?” meme, which was when one time Janus and the rest of Duality were on a talk show, all in costume, and the host asked Janus the dreaded question, “What’s in your pants?” and Janus had immediately responded by pulling things out of their pockets and listing them, the items getting more obscure as they went “Phone, wallet, keys, worm-on-a-string, tiny rainbow plastic babies, a dead mouse, Quetzalcoatl? [Quetzalcoatl is Janus’s pet hognose snake], and a barbie head.” the clip had spread like wildfire and had become a large part of what Janus’s stage persona, Deceit, had been known for. Everyone in the band had their own costume, usually involving half of the face being different from the other, Janus’s Deceit costume had a Jack the Ripper vibe and they had makeup to look like scales on the left side of their face. Ethan’s Hel was an all black suit and the left half of his body was made to look like dead, rotting flesh. Lola’s Truth had a black and white lace dress and her makeup was meant to make her look inhuman and had several extra eyes on the right side of her face. The final member, Tori’s Valhalla looked like a norse warrior, the right side of their face looked scarred and they wore an eyepatch over their right eye, like Odin.

“That kind of reminds me of what happened to me,” Virgil said with a shudder once the video was over. “I was hanging out with my friend, May, after your,” Virgil pointed at Janus, “concert and ended up crashing at her place. I tend to sleep pretty heavily, so I was surprised when I woke up on the autopsy table for the mortuary science program at the college I used to go to. I had barely woken up before I felt something that felt like a punch in my abdomen. I saw May, she had a knife and looked angry, she stabbed me four more times, repeatedly calling me a dirty tr*nny. I don’t think she realized I was awake. Thing is, she was the one who supported me the most during my transition and always had my back when I had first come out. That’s what hurt the most. She had apparently secretly hated me all these years and just now was releasing all that. I didn’t dare move until she had left and I started to crawl towards the desk phone at the professor's desk. I was almost there when I passed out. I woke up again to the professor shaking me, he’d always liked me and was concerned about me. He told me he had called 911 and shortly after I was hauled into an ambulance and carted away to the hospital, swimming in and out of consciousness. I think May was planning on killing me and having me be found dead on the autopsy table as a morbid surprise for the mortuary science teacher and his first period class of that day.” He was trying to control his breathing and he felt his heart rate speeding up. Virgil hoped that no one would notice and call him out on it.

Janus started writing and then showed Virgil: Was May at the concert too?

“Yeah why?” Breath, dammit, breath. Virgil chided himself

Janus scrunched their eyebrows and started writing again: What does she look like?

“Do you think-” Virgil cut himself off, took in a deep breath, and found a picture of May on his phone. She had a black bob with straight bangs and wore dark makeup.

Janus looked at the picture, That’s her, they wrote. One thing I didn’t mention before was that she had gotten away.

Suddenly Remus started talking “I’d stim and they’d hurt me.” Roman looked at his brother, remembering how Remus would make weird sounds, start shaking his leg, or drumming his fingers on whatever surface he could get to, and after a while their kidnappers had realized that Remus’s fidgeting and sounds were him stimming, one of his ways to try and calm himself down, started beating him more when he did. “And it started happening more and more because I was more stressed and then I had to force myself to not and I had so much pent up, that everything was a million times louder, even the smallest touches were too much, and my head felt so light and it was like I was feeling everything and nothing all at once, like I was both on fire and numb and I don’t know how to describe it.” Even now, Remus was trying to keep himself from stimming, he had his hands firmly grasped together and his legs were crossed unnaturally tight and he was visibly getting upset.

This was the first time Roman had even heard Remus talk about it. He hadn’t realized how much Remus had suffered and how different it was from how Logan and Roman had suffered. No wonder he was so despondent. He was overloaded in every way. Roman noticed how tight Remus was wound up and pulled something out of his pocket, a long, green silicone fidget toy that had small bumps on it for texture. “Hey,” Roman addressed his brother and handed him the fidget toy, “breath.” Remus took it and fidgeted, reminding himself that it was safe to stim now. “You never said how bad it was for you.” Roman said quietly.

Remus nodded, “I didn’t know how to say it.” He had nothing else to say.

Roman looked around after a long moment of silence. “I felt powerless. I’m almost always able to help, but I couldn't do anything. It was so awful only being able to watch, almost worse than getting beat regularly.” Roman fell silent again, not knowing what else to say.

“You feel like you have to be the hero, don’t you? You feel obligated to do it?” Dr. Flemmings asked. Roman thought for a moment and then nodded. “Since we’re coming to a close, I want to tell you all that you all did a good job today. Here’s what I want you all to do: Patton, read Galileo by Pual Tran, I think you’d benefit from it. Janus, I want you to write, I don’t care what you write, whether it be a song, a poem, a backtrack, whatever, as long as you express yourself with it. Virgil, I want you to use methods to regulate your breathing like the 4, 7, 8 technique and I want you to try carrying around a stress ball, same goes for you, Remus. Logan, I want you to express yourself more and come up with a way for you to get your feelings out in a safe manner. Roman, I want you to think about why you feel obligated to be the hero. And lastly I think you all can benefit from each other, as you have all had similar experiences. Thank you all for attending.”

Everyone started saying their goodbyes and started leaving. Janus met up with an older guy in the lobby who nudged them and said “Happy birthday, kid.” The older guy looked a little sad, like he was remembering something tragic. Everyone heard him wish Janus a happy birthday and started wishing them a happy birthday as well.

Patton looked at the guy and said “Is this your dad, Janus?”

Janus shook their head no and at the same time the guy said “I’m their brother. John, by the way.”

“You guys are siblings? Wow! I never would have guessed!”

Janus looked slightly embarrassed, everyone always confused John for their dad, which wasn’t too far off as John and his wife had raised them. “Yeah the twenty-one year age gap doesn’t help,” John said, lowering his gaze somewhat, just wanting Patton to change the subject.

Janus broke off from John for a moment, wrote something down and handed it to Patton. It said: He’s a little sensitive about family history. Mom died while having me and we don’t know who my dad is, so he had to raise me. That’s why he looks a little sad today.

Patton’s mouth formed a silent “O” as he slipped the paper into his pocket and waved goodbye “Have a nice day!”

John looked at his sibling, “What did that say?”

I said you were having a bad day.

“Oh, okay” he believed the white lie.

Logan was on the phone “I know dad, you’ve told me the story every year for as long as I can remember. I’m about to get in the car, so I’ll call you back”

John looked at Logan and whispered to Janus “What are their pronouns?”

He/him Janus wrote

“He looks and sounds a lot like the doctor who delivered you.”

Janus shrugged and started walking towards their car, a black Jeep, and got in, deciding to go to the cafe that John worked at, knowing that John had to go to work, and besides, they were hungry.

Masterpost

[bouwrites]

Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 3

He’s a hero, a lover, a prince. She’s not there.

First, Previous, Next. Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Marinette has to admit that she is a little nervous to be sharing an apartment with a boy. She’s been sharing with Adrien, of course, but Adrien is her boyfriend. Jon is a stranger. But, meeting him, Marinette’s fears calm a lot.

Jon is big enough to hurt her if he wants, and would take all of Marinette’s skill and training to fight just for his size and strength advantage, but he’s so gentle and earnest that Marinette is convinced startlingly fast that she needn’t be on such guard around him.

She notices, as they ease into a routine on their first week living together, how he’s always careful to give her space, as if he’s afraid of crowding her with his height over her. He never intrudes in her room, either. In fact, the only time he even steps foot inside is when Marinette grabs his arm and drags him in to get his help in hanging up some fairy lights she needs higher on the wall than she can safely reach. (She gets most of it done herself. Over her desk and bed, she just stands on those to give her the height, but one wall doesn’t have any convenient furniture under it.)

Jon is a remarkably great roommate, actually, whom Marinette counts herself lucky to be stuck with. He’s friendly and invites her out with him when he’s going to do fun things and he’s always willing to talk and listen if she wants to, and he cleans up after himself and stays out of her business for the most part, which Marinette appreciates. They go for coffee a few times in the mornings leading up to their semesters starting, taking advantage of the time to get to know each other before they’re swamped with work, but most of their days are spent either exploring their respective colleges, exploring the city (which they do together once or twice), or at their desks preparing for the semester ahead. By the time classes do start, Marinette considers him a friend.

Adrien isn’t too happy about her rooming with a guy, which Marinette understands, but she tries to assuage his concerns. “It’s fine, Adrien. Jon is very considerate. You don’t have to worry about him. Besides, I always have Tikki.”

Adrien pouts at the screen. “I know you can handle yourself, my lady. I just don’t like the idea of some strange guy living with you.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you. You’ve only known each other for a week!”

“And he hasn’t given me any reason not to trust him.” Marinette says. “Of course, I’m cautious, but I won’t assume the worst about him when he hasn’t shown any sign of deserving it. Just relax.”

Adrien sighs. “I’m trying. I just… I worry about you. Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

“I’m doing great. There’s nothing to worry about.”

His eyes flicker downwards. “If you say so. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, chaton.”

Adrien is quiet for a while, and ultimately breaks the silence by asking, “So, how’re your classes?”

Marinette smiles. “Not quite what I was expecting.” She admits. “But interesting!” As she talks about her classes, Adrien listens attentively, looking just below the camera (at her image) with the same look she always sees on him. That love for her that makes her heart flutter.

It’s not quite the same when she knows he’s an ocean away. It doesn’t make her heart flutter. It makes it hurt.

But she doesn’t regret her decision. She can’t. University is more than she can imagine, and she’s only just starting! Already she’s learning things she’s never even thought about, and it’s still hard to fight the itch to go out and patrol the streets, but she takes solace in the comforting notion that it’s not her responsibility anymore. She’s not a hero. Besides, while classes are manageable now, she’ll be thankful for the extra time when things really get into full swing. Already she’s planning out her time carefully and doing everything she can to stay on top of her work.

She won’t go back to clumsy, overworked, stressed-out, hot mess Marinette. This is a new chapter in her life, and she’ll take full advantage of the ability to get a head start on organizing it.

The first day of classes, as soon as she gets to the apartment, she copies down all the dates in her syllabi to her schedule, on a calendar directly over her desk where she can’t miss it if she tries. And every day after class, she writes all her smaller assignments and readings on a whiteboard in the same place over her desk, which she can plan her time around to tackle one at a time without overworking herself.

(When she mentions this strategy to Jon, he slaps a hand to his face and exclaims, “Why didn’t I think of that?” Marinette laughs at him and is flattered when he mentions a few days later that he got a similar set-up for himself, thanking her for “saving his life.”)

“Shoes, Jon!”

Jon freezes in the doorway, groaning as he looks down at his feet. “Sorry, Marinette.”

“We have a shoe closet for a reason, you know.”

“That’s a broom closet!” He protests, already on his way back to change his shoes.

“Our shoes are in there!” Marinette calls down the hall to him. “So, it’s a shoe closet!”

“The broom is in there, too!”

“I didn’t buy you indoor shoes for you to sass me, mister! You’re just tracking dirt all over the place, and you’re going to have to clean it up!”

“Then I’ll clean it! You know I don’t mind cleaning duty!”

As Jon reemerges into the living room, Marinette says, “And that’s fine, so long as I don’t have to use the floor before you get to it and get my fabrics all filthy. Again.”

“I said I was sorry.” Jon whines. He makes a cute pouty face for a moment before his attention turns to what she’s doing. “What’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti.” Marinette says. “Can you take over? I really want to go over my essay one more time.”

Jon adjusts his glasses and carefully examines the pots on the stove. “Which you can do in the… ten minutes it’ll take to finish this?”

“Every minute counts! I’m also working on a new design, so I want as much time as possible tonight to finish it up. Plus, I have to call Adrien before it gets too late. It’s already getting late in Paris.”

Jon chuckles. “Sure, sure. Go do your thing. I’ll finish up dinner.”

“Thanks! You’re the best.” Marinette hands off her spoon to him and dances around him to get to her room. “Call me when it’s ready!”

“I will. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Marinette sticks her tongue out at him when he shakes his head at her, and then she hurries off to her room. Her essay isn’t due for another week, which is why she takes the time to start dinner in the first place, but she has a presentation to prepare that’s also due next week, so she wants to get this essay done tonight so that she only has to worry about the one thing.

And while Marinette may be fluent in English – her parents taught her English as well as French growing up, a useful thing to know while in a store in a place with so many tourists – She’s still much less confident in it than in her French. She has to go over her essays very carefully for grammar, and then she takes full advantage of the writing center and the tutors there who will go over it with her. She’s taking this essay in tomorrow, and then will use the weekend to perfect it with her tutor’s recommendations as well as get her presentation into a better place.

It’s a lot, but she’s on top of it for now and she’s going to use everything at her disposal, including Jon so long as it doesn’t hinder him, to stay on top of it. Every minute counts, and this essay needs to be ready to turn into the writing center tonight.

She’s, predictably, still on the phone with Adrien (and multitasking, reviewing her essay at the same time) when Jon knocks on her door and calls her to dinner, and then she runs out to grab a plate and asks, “Do you mind?” as she tentatively steps back towards her room. She can talk with Adrien and eat and then do all her work right after dinner.

Jon chuckles and shakes his head. “Go talk to your boyfriend.”

Marinette is frustrated. Who in their right mind decides that three classes are allowed to have their tests on the same day? Why is Marinette taking three classes in one day in the first place? I should have done two and two like a sensible person. She grumbles to herself. Of course, her lab also has a test, so her other day still has two tests at once. Which is, quite frankly, utterly ridiculous.

It’s not like she isn’t prepared for them. She’s known these tests are coming since the start of the semester and has been preparing accordingly. She’s as ready as she can be, and she worries cramming now won’t do anything for her at all. Even still, it’s three tests to worry about tomorrow. So, she’ll review her notes one more time before bed, but before that, she’s going to stress-sew.

Stress-relief will probably help a lot more than a few hours extra studying at this point.

Vrrrr. Vrrrr. Thunk.

The sewing machine is familiar and calming and it helps her get her thoughts in order.

Vrrrr. Vrrrr. Thunk.

Repetitive and mindless. She can do this in her sleep. And she knows all the material, she can take the test in her sleep! Right? Right. Definitely.

Bum-bum-bum.

Marinette raises her head to the door of her room. She carefully stops the machine and goes to answer it.

And there is Jon, glasses askew and hair a mess, rubbing the bags under his eyes. He peers over her shoulder at the machine not far from them. “Hey.” He says. “Is that, uh, urgent?”

Marinette glances back to her project. “No. It’s just a thing I’m working on for myself. Why? Is the machine too loud?”

He slowly nods. “Sorry. Could you put it off until tomorrow or something? I’m- you know. Cramming.”

“Of course. No problem. Sorry for bothering you.”

He yawns. “No worries. Thanks. I should get back to studying.”

Marinette watches as he zombie-walks back to his room, shutting the door behind him. Frowning, Marinette wonders how she can help him. Sewing calms her, but her machine is bothering him, so she has to find something else. She can just leave him alone. Study herself or find a book to read so she’s in silence and not making any noise that can disturb him. That’s probably what he wants her to do, but…

Marinette puts her project away, takes out her own notes, and then tip-toes out of her room. Mid-terms are tough, no doubt about it, but if there’s one thing she knows from being Ladybug it’s that when the going gets tough, keeping her cool is what will lead her to victory.

So, she makes tea. It’s not much, but it’s what she can do for him, and for herself, right now. She pours him a cup and carefully knocks on his door. “Jon?”

“Come in.” She hears, weakly.

She enters, frowns at how the lights are off even as he stares at his laptop screen, and places the cup of tea on his desk next to him. “You’ve been studying all semester.” She says. “You’ve got this.”

Jon slowly reaches out, takes a sip of the tea, and sighs. “Thanks, Marinette.”

“Also, don’t study with your lights off. It’s bad for your eyes, and it’ll only make you tired and you won’t retain as much.”

He chuckles. “Hit the lights for me?”

“Yeah.” She pats his shoulder once before turning away. “Good luck, Jon.”

“You too.”

As she exits the room, she flicks his light switch, flooding the room with light. That alone perks Jon up even more. Marinette rolls her eyes as she closes the door behind her.

As for herself, she grabs her own cup of tea and settles down with her own notes. Maybe she’ll get an early night, if this doesn’t take too long. It’ll be good for her, anyway.

Marinette expects the party she walks into when she returns to Paris. With her family and friends, it’d be silly to expect anything else. But the fanfare dies quickly enough. After they drag her around for a while and waste the whole day away spending time with each other.

Adrien is a strange mix of ecstatic and subdued. Marinette suspects the latter is because he can tell what she’s thinking, even as she figures it out herself, but he’s still overjoyed to see her and he sweeps her up into his arms like he hasn’t been able to for months. (Because he hasn’t.)

And when the day drifts into its close, it’s odd, living in her old bedroom again. It isn’t just her time at University since she’s lived in the bakery, after all, but also her time living with Adrien, so it’s strange to be in this room again.

Adrien is still with her for now, standing in her old bedroom feeling two years too old for it, because he wants to be with her as much as he can and she wants to spend the break with her parents.

“I always loved this room.” Adrien says suddenly. “It’s so you. And look!” He rushes over to her bed, scaling the stairs up to it to poke at the latch above it. “Your balcony! Remember all the nights we’d spend up there?”

Marinette smiles. She remembers. All the nights Chat Noir would drop by her balcony. How they’d talk and talk late into the night about everything and nothing, before and after the reveal of their identities. How many hours have we spent up there? She follows him up, taking his hand when he offers it to pull her through the skylight onto the balcony proper.

It’s just like she remembers it. A little barren, maybe, with not quite so many plants out here to keep them company, but her old lounge chair and sunshade are still out here. It makes her feel nostalgic.

“I should go patrol.” Adrien says looking out over the city. “Do you… want to join me, my lady? For old time’s sake? Paris misses you.” He leaves the “I miss you” out for her sake, but Marinette hears it.

She shakes her head. “I’m not a hero anymore, Adrien.”

Adrien swallows thickly. “Right. I’ll… I guess I’ll see you soon, then.”

Marinette searches in Adrien’s eyes for answers to a question she doesn’t want to ask. “See you soon.”

He looks away. “Plagg. Transform me.” He turns, readying himself to leap to another roof, but looks back.

It’s strange, when he looks back. It makes Marinette feel out of place. Like she’s not where she’s supposed to be and he’s surprised to see her there instead of at his side. It makes something inside of Marinette twist painfully, but she ignores it for now. It’s probably nothing. She’s just not used to staying behind yet.

Marinette takes for granted the normal things in her life. She shouldn’t, considering how abnormal her life is, but she does. Things like cooking dinner for two knowing someone else will be home by the time it’s done, or petty disagreements over inside shoes that never heat up to the point of actual argument, or work catching up with her despite her efforts to stay on top of it and working late into the night to get everything done.

Adrien never stops asking her if she wants to go on patrol, and every time he leaves without her, she feels more and more alone. During the day, Alya badgers her about Ladybug, too. And she doesn’t mind it. She understands where they’re coming from. She just… misses when superheroes and crime fighting wasn’t a thing she had to worry about. Even if it only lasted for a couple months.

“What’s troubling you, Master?”

Marinette closes her eyes and sighs at the floor at Wayzz’s question. “Nothing.” She says. “It’s almost Christmas! Are you all excited?”

The kwami all chirp happily and voice their excitement and Marinette uses that to derail their concern. The way Wayzz and Tikki look at each other, though… Marinette knows this isn’t the end of it.

Christmas comes and goes. It’s a lovely affair. Marinette goes to Alya’s holiday party, and then spends Christmas day with her family, Adrien included. (He’s been part of the family since his dad was arrested for being Hawk Moth.) It’s a day of warmth and cheer, and Marinette kisses Adrien under the mistletoe, and then Chat Noir leaves to sing carols on rooftops, and Marinette wonders… she wonders where normal went.

She feels selfish. Mean and cruel and selfish, because she doesn’t hate this. It’s fine. She’s okay with Adrien leaving every night to be a hero, despite how lonely it makes her feel. She’s content with her responsibility of taking care of the kwami. But she isn’t happy. It hurts, that she’s not happy. But on some level, it feels like she’s still expected to be Ladybug. Every time Adrien asks her if she wants to suit up, every time Wayzz calls her “Master,” every time Alya shows her the pictures she takes of Adrien late at night, it’s like they’re quietly egging her on, nagging her, asking why she isn’t doing what she’s supposed to. Asking where she went.

It’s uncomfortable, and even though she has a lot of fun being back home with her family and friends, it pervades everything in Paris. It’s as if the city itself is crying out to her to come back to them.

In some cases, it literally is doing that.

Alya has more tact than to post such an article, but other news sites, ones who don’t know who Ladybug is or her reason for leaving, still ask what happened to Paris’ heroine. Adrien still dodges questions about it, still never giving a firm answer on whether she’ll come back or not. Marinette thinks he doesn’t want to say that she won’t, because he’s still hoping that she will.

“How could she just abandon us like this?” People ask. “She’s supposed to be our hero.” They say.

It’s too late for that. Marinette can’t turn back now. Not after she got her one sweet taste of normal. Besides, she still has the rest of her University life ahead of her. It’s only been one semester. She can’t come back now even if she wants to.

But how can she turn her back on this?

It’s a few days before she leaves that she makes her decision. “Marinette.” Tikki says softly. “You’ve been quiet all break. What’s going on?”

Marinette sighs. She doesn’t want to say. She wants to deny that anything at all is wrong. But she’d be lying. She made a promise to Adrien to be happy, and if she lies now… Marinette resigns herself to the inevitable. It’s better to do it now than later. Rip off the band-aid, so to speak. “I went to America because I wanted to start over, Tikki. To start… normal. Because being here, where being Ladybug is so important – not just to me but to everyone. Adrien, Alya, all of you kwami, it… I feel trapped here. And Paris is… they’re mad at me, Tikki. For leaving. They’re mad at me because I did something that made me happy! I just- I’m mad at them! And I…” She sighs again, shaking her head. It’s not worth getting angry over. “I don’t want to stay here, but… I don’t want to say goodbye.”

“Marinette, you’re the guardian of the Miracle Box. You have t-”

“I know! I know I have responsibilities! I don’t want them! I’m not trying to slack off or shirk my work, I just… university isn’t easy, Tikki.”

“I know.” Tikki laughs lightly. “I saw.”

“It’s not easy, but it’s normal. It makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile for me. It’s a lot of work, but it makes me better. It makes me happy. Being Ladybug, being a hero, it’s a lot of work, too, but it makes me feel… empty. Am… Am I a bad person for not wanting to do that?”

“Of course, you’re not a bad person, Marinette! You’re the best person I know!”

“…Even if I’m not Ladybug?”

“You don’t need powers to be good, Marinette.” Tikki pauses for a long time, looking away and, perhaps, a bit ashamed. “I’m sorry if we put too much on you. I’m proud of you for doing what makes you happy. You know all I want is for you to be happy. If that means you have to be normal, then that’s okay.”

Marinette sniffs and reaches out to hug Tikki. “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

She tries and tries to think of how she’ll tell Adrien, but all she does is make herself cry. And she keeps crying until Adrien finally gets back from patrol.

“Marinette!” He’s startled, confused, scared, because his girlfriend is crying, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong. He reaches out to comfort her, but Marinette weakly pushes him away.

She can’t summon words for a long while. All she can do is stare pitifully at his concern, that love and worry that shows her so clearly how he feels about her. And ironically, despite how much he loves her, and how much she loves him, that’s exactly why she needs to do this. Because they have to be honest with each other, and Marinette needs to honor the promise she made to honor that love. She can’t draw this out any longer than she already has, even if she desperately doesn’t want to let go. “I’m sorry, Adrien.” She finally says. “I’m trying, I really am. But I can’t… I can’t do this. I… I’m just starting to understand what normal is, and I can’t… every time you leave, I feel this obligation and hate and hurt and I… I can’t.”

Adrien sits back on the bed, struck more painfully than he ever has been before in costume. “…Are you breaking up with me?”

Marinette nods. “I’m sorry.” She says. “You’re a hero. You’re a wonderful person, and I love you so much, but I just… I can’t do this. I can’t be happy this way, so…”

Marinette can hear a long, shaky sigh. “I understand, my lady. We both kind of knew this was coming, didn’t we?”

“Yeah. I guess we did. You’re a hero. I’m not. We worked great when we were fighting together, but now that there’s no bad guy…”

“You’ve been quiet.” Adrien says. “And I’ve been spending more time out, away from you. And you going to America makes it even harder.”

“That time of our lives is over.” Marinette summarizes. “Everything that brought us together in the first place is over.”

“Yeah.” Adrien frowns. “I guess we… outgrew each other.”

“…Each other?”

Adrien flinches. “I love you so much, Marinette. You know that. But… I know what you mean. To me, we were Ladybug and Chat Noir. Even as Marinette and Adrien, we were the hero duo. If we’re not heroes anymore, or worse, if only one of us is, then what are we? You’re always going to be my hero, and I’ll always love you, but… you’re right. It’s not the same.”

Marinette screws her eyes shut, trying in vain not to cry. “I think I saw it the same way. You’re a hero. You’ll always be Chat Noir. And while I still liked being Ladybug, we made sense. Now…”

“Now we don’t.” Adrien says, voice fragile and quivering. “Even if it hurts.”

“…Yeah.”

“Do you think we can still be friends?”

“I think it’ll hurt.” Marinette says. “But I think we can if we try.”

“It’s worth it.” Adrien says. “However much it hurts, it’ll be worth it.”

Marinette giggles softly. “Agreed. So… friends?”

Adrien smiles back at her, weak and struggling but a smile, sincere, nonetheless. “Friends. Forever.”

“Friends forever.” Marinette echoes.

Marinette throws her bags into her room and collapses on her bed. It’s still unbelievable to her that she’s single now. She’s been with Adrien since collège. They dated for six years! The last two years of collège, all three years of lycée, and another year on top of that, plus Marinette’s whole first semester of university. It’s another thing that she’s not sure how to live without.

But she’s adapting to not reaching for Tikki whenever she hears trouble. She’s adapting to not checking on the kwami every night. She’s adapting. She’ll adapt to life without Adrien as a boyfriend, too. At least he’s not completely gone from her life. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

And now that she’s alone… she has nothing left to stop her from crying.

“Marinette? You back?” The voice is cautious, ready for danger, calling out for confirmation that it’s okay to let down his guard. She stifles her sobs, but still doesn’t hear Jon’s shoes on the floorboards before there’s a knock on her door. “Are you… crying?”

“I’m okay!” She calls, sniffling.

There’s a silent moment between them. “You left the door unlocked.” Jon says gently. “I just wanted to make sure it was you.”

“Y-yeah. It’s me. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jon says. “…What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” Marinette says. “Just… Adrien.”

“Adrien?” Jon’s voice takes on a dark quality that she hasn’t heard from him before. “Did he do something?”

“No! No, he didn’t do anything wrong.” Marinette says quickly. Hearing that threatening tone in Jon’s voice frightens her more than she thinks it should, considering it’s for her sake. She’s never seen him angry before, not after a whole semester living together. Subdued, quite a bit, sad, sometimes, like he has a lot on his shoulders, but never angry. She really doesn’t like hearing him that way. “We broke up.” She says, finally. Jon is a friend, and he’s going to be putting up with her missing Adrien one way or another, so she figures it’s just fair to at least tell him what she’s crying over.

There’s a soft, “Oh,” from the other side of the door, and then Jon says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Thanks, but… no. I don’t.”

“Okay.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t say anything else, so Marinette sighs and sits for a while longer in the dark. A few minutes later, there’s another knock on her door. “Marinette? Come out into the living room.”

Marinette frowns through the dark at the door. “Why?”

“Please? Just come out.”

Marinette debates with herself for a moment, glances over to her nightstand where Tikki’s earrings rest in their box, and slowly rises from her bed.

She opens the door, peeking out to see Jon there with a gentle smile on his face, big, concerned, blue eyes magnified by his square glasses, with one hand held out to her. She frowns at him but takes his hand and lets him guide her to the living room.

And what she sees has her crying all over again. He’s pulled out an old quilt she didn’t know he has, the kind of warm, grandma-crafted thing that just screams safety, homeliness, and comfort. It’s draped over the sofa, and there are two pints of ice cream on the coffee table, glowing softly in the light of the television playing the intro of a Disney movie in English, one spoon placed carefully on the lid of each pint.

Did he buy ice cream before I got back? Neither of them eat that much ice cream, so when they do they usually go out specifically for it. They rarely just have it in their freezer. She can’t help but wonder where he got them, but… she’s not going to think about it too hard. It’s just her ladybug luck. How helpful it is. Or maybe Jon has some sixth sense for this. He has always been sensitive to her feelings.

She just can’t believe him right now. He keeps smiling at her, carefully guiding her to the sofa, and sits her down and throws the quilt over her and hands her one of the pints of ice cream before grabbing the other and slipping under the quilt on the other side of the sofa. He doesn’t say anything, he just opens his ice cream and starts digging in, watching the movie like this is just a regularly scheduled movie night. (Maybe, Marinette thinks, they should start having movie nights.)

Marinette opens her pint feeling guilty, because this is so… normal. It’s so sweet and thoughtful of Jon, and it makes her so happy, and it reminds her why she broke up with Adrien and that reminds her how much it hurts.

This is her normal. Life in this little apartment barely big enough for the both of them. Jon from Hamilton County putting his shoes up on the coffee table despite Marinette having spent a semester trying to train him to leave his shoes by the door. Ice cream and Disney movies to get over a breakup. It’s so pedestrian, so normal, so much exactly what Marinette wants that it hurts.

Because she does love Adrien. He’s like the sweet frozen cream on her tongue. He’s a hero, and he makes her feel good when she feels bad, but it’s just not enough. Because he’s a hero, and she’s a world away in America, searching for her own life and future.

Because here under Jon’s old quilt, eating ice cream and watching Disney movies while he’s just on the other side of the sofa doing the exact same thing like this isn’t because she’s feeling terrible but just because it’s a normal thing to do, she feels normal. And safe. And it feels like a betrayal to her home, to her family and friends, and to Adrien. That they aren’t good enough. That she can’t be satisfied with them.

Marinette is confused. She’s feeling too many things and it’s hard to sort through it all, but she supposes that’s why normal people drown their worries away in ice cream and silly movies. Because those are so much simpler and bring such a simple pleasure that they’re easy to focus on.

She looks over to Jon, and he’s attentive of her, glancing her way now and then, checking in on her, but he doesn’t bother her. He lets her sit in silence as she pleases. She did say she doesn’t want to talk about it, so she’s thankful for it. Even so, she has to say something. The only thing she can say to him for doing this for her without question. For being so kind and patient and normal. “Thank you, Jon.”

Jon beams at her. “Don’t mention it.”

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